Lie To Me
by Medieval Liz
Summary: Part Two of the 'Sleepers Series' - It’s Graduation Day at Bayport High School! For the students of BHS the day begins as any other but quickly leads the Hardy’s and their friends into a nightmare from which they may never wake.
1. Introduction

**Author's Name:** Medieval Liz

**Title of Story:** Lie To Me

**Rating of Story**: PG-15

**Characters in Story:** Usual gang plus OCs

**Warnings:** Violence; Mature Subject Matter; Coarse Language; Death; Angst

**Plot Blurb**: It's Graduation Day at Bayport High School! For the students of BHS the day begins as any other but quickly leads the Hardy's and their friends into a nightmare from which they may never wake.

**Author's Notes: **

This is a continuation from my first story "_A Hole in the World_." It is highly recommended that it be read before reading this story, else some of the content may be confusing. Also, a reader pointed out to me that I forgot to acknowledge that I took inspiration from the television series "Alias" for Project Christmas which was used in the previous story and is mentioned during this one. I'd like to do that now, so there's no further confusion.

This story deals with a very touchy subject, one I wrestled with before coming to the decision to write it. Violence in our schools is a sad reality these days, and one that is not to be glorified or made light of. This story does contain such content and those who are unwilling, or unable, to handle such content are advised not to read the following story.

I want to express my heartfelt thanks to Miss Nomi and Miss Red Hardy, for their work as beta readers and for all their help and suggestions. Without them I couldn't have gotten through this. Next time, my dears, the subject matter will not be so heavy.

Because I have rewritten quite a bit of this story from how it was originally posted, and it's been a rather long time, I have decided to delete the existing version of Lie To Me and repost the new chapters. For those of you who have been waiting for me to complete this story, thank you for your patience and understanding. Also, to those who took the time to review and leave feedback on the previous version, I would like to express a deep thank you. Your comments helped me through some of the rough patches i went through during this rewrite.

All the chapters are completed, and it is my plan to post twice a week, on Monday & Friday. However, when I deliver my baby there may be a couple of days delay in updates while I'm in the hospital. So if there is suddenly a Monday or Friday without an update, that's probably the reason and I'll get caught up as soon as possible.

As always, feedback and constructive criticism is welcomed.

Liz

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Hardy Boys. It's just a little bit of fun.


	2. Prologue: Nightmares & Reality

_**PROLOGUE: Nightmares & Reality**_

_Friday, June 11, 8:55am_

"Second Friday already, Frank?"

Frank Hardy looked up from the magazine he'd been absently flipping through. The door to the office, beyond the waiting room, had opened and a woman in her early forties appeared. She wore a pair of casual trousers and loose fitting blouse, her greying brown hair hanging loosely around her face.

She smiled warmly at the young man, the grin lighting up her soft green eyes. "Come on in, let's get started."

Putting the magazine back on the coffee table, Frank followed the woman into the room. It was comfortably furnished, resembling a living room more than an office. The only telltale sign that it was a place of business was the desk in front of the third story window.

Frank took a deep breath to calm his already rising nerves and smiled when he smelt the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He glanced over to a small counter and chuckled at the sight of the pot that had just finished percolating. "You know me too well, Dr Glas."

Dr Emily Glas watched him pour a cup for himself as well as one for her. He handed it to her as they both sat, he on the dark leather sofa while she took a seat in the easy chair across from him. "You really think I'd risk one of these appointments without your morning doses of caffeine?"

He laughed softly again and took a sip of the black beverage. It burned his throat, but he welcomed the warmth. "Like I need any more caffeine this morning."

She noted the dark circles under his eyes and frowned, setting aside the coffee. "You're not sleeping again."

The statement banished the calm he'd been struggling to portray. He sighed wearily, holding the warm mug between his hands as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It's that obvious, huh?"

"Frank," Dr Glas spoke evenly, keeping a soothing tone to her voice, "I've been seeing you for five years-"

"Six," he corrected automatically.

She smiled. "All right, six. And in that time I think I've learned how to read you pretty well." Reaching to a side table next to the chair she picked up a small tape recorder and placed it on the coffee table between them. She pressed the record button and leaned back in her chair. "Is it the nightmares again?"

"Yea," came the vague answer.

"Tell me?"

His shoulders lifted in a shrug, trying to pass off that he wasn't as upset as he really was. "Same ones, mostly. The purple lights, the hands… Bozo. I just thought, that after six years, they wouldn't get to me like this. I'm not a kid anymore, so why do I still wake up in a cold sweat and fighting the urge to be sick? And lately-"

Emily waited a moment, allowing him the chance to continue on his own. When he didn't, remaining lost in the ripples of the coffee, she gently coaxed him. "Lately what, Frank?"

The mug between his trembling hands splashed a little coffee onto his fingers and he set it down, wiping the liquid on to his jeans. "I don't know. The imagery, it's all the same. I can't move, can't scream, but I'm seeing more."

"Like what?"

"Faces," was the perplexed response. "Not clearly, like I can see you now, but shadowed faces. Some I can see their mouths moving, like they're trying to talk to me, to tell me something. Others just stare at me. And behind Bozo, there's one…" Frank ran his hand through his dark hair, the thick strands falling across his forehead. "I can't see him, but I know him. I just don't remember how or why."

"What makes you think you know this shadow?"

"I can hear him," Frank looked up at Emily, the weariness more prominent in his bronze eyes. "He's whispering to me, making me promise him something."

"What was the promise?"

"That's just it," he sighed, his frustration right on the surface, "I don't know. He just keeps saying 'Promise me' over and over."

The woman leaned back in her chair, thinking over everything her young patient had just told her. "Frank, have you considered your mind may be trying to get you to remember more?"

"No," he said firmly, almost angrily. "I can't remember more."

"Frank," Dr Glas said gently, "It may not be that simple anymore. These dreams? You know, as well as I do, that these are repressed memories. Your subconscious can only keep them suppressed for so long. It may be time to try remembering that missing time. There has been great progress in hypnotherapy-"

"No," he growled, staring at her with an animalistic glare. "Those months are gone, and they **won't** be remembered."

She held up her hands defensively. "Okay, Frank."

Emily watched him for another minute, at the range of emotions playing over his face. "Talk to me, Frank. I've been treating you for six years and I haven't seen you this agitated since you first walked through that door. Did something happen?"

"Yes… No… I guess," he replied in frustration, calmer than before but still on edge.

"Let's talk about the yes," the doctor tried softly. "Tell me what happened."

Like a caged animal, Frank jerked to his feet and began to pace.

"You know, in the past couple of years, I've done some pretty amazing stuff." Frank paused, not exactly sure how to phrase what he had wanted to say for a long time. His agitated pacing stopped and he placed his hands on the back of the sofa. "I have been all over the world. I have seen things that most people won't see their entire lives. I have met some of the most incredible – and dangerous – people. Joe, he lives for this stuff. But me? Sure, it's exciting, challenging, and in some ways it can actually be fun at times. But when it's all over, the excitement done, mostly, all I can think of is why?"

"Why?"

"Why me?" he clarified, sitting back on the sofa and tilting his head to stare at the ceiling. "I'm eighteen years old. I should be thinking about school work, about college, about Callie and Prom! Not running from hired assassins and disarming a nuclear bomb."

And here, Emily thought she had heard it all.

Her eyes bulged at his words. At first she couldn't help but think it was a joke. Who wouldn't? A teenager talking about nuclear bombs? Then she looked at who her patient was and, knowing him as she did and seeing the troubled look on his face, she knew it wasn't.

Keeping her professionalism, Emily Glas cleared her throat hesitantly. "Do you want to tell me about that, Frank?"

"Our last case," he said after a moment, exhaling deeply. "It wasn't even really a case. We, Joe and I, were in Halifax to pick up some depositions for Dad. In and out, a day at most. Yet Joe and I ended up smack in the middle of a plot to detonate a nuclear weapon in the city and use a second one to hold an American city hostage."

There was no masking the alarmed expression on Dr Glas' face. A silence hung over the office briefly before she collected herself. "Tell me about the bomb, Frank. You say you disarmed it?"

He nodded, reaching for his mug of coffee and taking a long drink. "Dismantled it, actually. Ever since… well, truthfully, ever since Iola died I've begun studying bomb designs. That bomb was meant for Joe, and I wanted to be prepared just in case. Never, in my wildest dreams, did I imagine that I'd be using what I learned to stop a nuclear bomb from killing millions of people after spending hours handcuffed to the damn thing…"

A little light went on in Emily's mind. "Frank, we've talked about this before. The handcuffs-"

"I know," Frank looked down at his wrists, to the faint scars that were nearly invisible against his tanned skin. "I've been tied up, strapped down, restrained a dozen different ways, but nothing unhinges me like they do." He sighed and rubbed his hands down his face.

"And did you hear yourself a moment ago? You said the bomb, the one that killed Iola, was meant for Joe. Never mind the fact that it was placed in a car that belonged to both of you, that it was intended for both of you. You focussed on Joe, like you always do."

"He's my brother." Even though his words were whispered, the conviction was very apparent. "I'm supposed to look out for him, to protect him, keep him safe."

"What about you, Frank? Who protects you?"

The room went eerily silent.

Dr Glas waited a few minutes, hoping she would get something from the young man, but his silence usually marked the end of a conversation. He was done for the day, but perhaps she had given him some things to think about. Now, she had to ease the troubled mind.

"Tell me about Prom, Frank."

* * *

A/N: _Reference to Hardy Boys Casefile #28: 'Countdown to Terror'_


	3. Chapter One: Perspectives

_**Chapter One: Perspectives**_

_Friday, June 11, 9:10am_

Vanessa Bender & Joe Hardy

"Miss Bender, Mr Hardy, thank you for gracing us with your presence!"

The two golden haired teens had tried to sneak into the back of the class, the bell having run several minutes ago. Vanessa's cheeks turned a bright pink and she scurried on to her desk. Joe, his infamous grin playing across his lips, smiled at the teacher that stood at the head of the class. "Our pleasure, Mr Prince!"

The rest of the students snickered as Joe slipped into the desk beside his girlfriend.

Mr Prince rolled his eyes and sighed as the students quieted down. "Look, I realize that with the Graduation Ceremonies this afternoon, your finals over with, and the Junior and Senior Prom tonight, you're minds are everywhere but here. But you're not done yet. This is still a class and everyone will participate. Mr Hardy, would you care to begin."

During the instructor's lecture, Joe had reached across the distance between the two desks and taken Vanessa's hand in his. He gave it a quick kiss on the back and looked at the writing on the board Mr Prince was gesturing to. "Ummm… E?"

"No!" Mr Prince lifted the chalk and wrote the letter E on the board. "There's no E." With a gleeful smirk he drew a circle attached to the hangman's noose. "They always go for the E. Next! Steven."

HBHBHB

Phil Cohen & Tony Prito

Mrs Chaplin reached into the half empty box of candy bars and lifted out a Snickers bar. She held it high over head. "Okay, lightning round! The Island Napoleon was first exiled to?

"Elba!"

She chucked the candy overhead to the brunette in the back of the class. Mrs Chaplin had a big smile on her face as she pulled out the black wrapped candy bar. "Roman God of war?

"Aries."

"Aries was a constellation; I'm looking for a god.

"Mars," Phil answered.

The class groaned as Mrs Chaplin tossed the Mars bar to Phil. "Come on people, I practically gave that one to you." She retrieved another candy bar. "Qian Long was emperor of what Chinese dynasty?"

HBHBHB

Chet Morton

"You're late, Mr Morton!"

"Sorry, Ms Sims." Chet stopped outside the office and chatted with elderly secretary. "The cattle were restless last night with that storm that came through."

Ms Sims took down another old announcement from the peg board on the wall. "They weren't the only ones. My cats were bouncing off the walls. Did you see the strike out in the Mills' back fields?"

"Not the strike," the robust boy admitted, helping the woman remove some of the papers. "But Dad ended up helping contain the fire it caused. Wish those clouds had brought some rain with the lightning, though."

HBHBHB

Callie Shaw & Liz Webling

"Thanks for the help, Cal."

Callie set the box onto the table next to the one Liz had just put down. "It gets me out of one more class with Mrs Chaplin. I'm not complaining, Liz."

The cafeteria was empty except for the handful of students that were setting everything up for the seniors. Two students were organizing the year books; another was helping Miss Taylor with the caps and gowns, while Liz and Callie were unpacking the class rings.

Liz tucked a piece of straight blonde hair behind her ear and pulled several smaller boxes out of the large one in front of her. "Can you believe we're graduating today?"

"I know," Cal agreed, opening another box. "It's a little surreal, but exciting. You decided where you're going to school yet?"

"Narrowed it down to two," the young woman answered, sorting the tiny ring boxes into alphabetical order. "It'll either be NYU or UCLA; best journalism programs in the country."

"I considered UCLA," Callie admitted, working as they chatted.

"Ah, but California is lacking in a certain dark haired Hardy," Liz teased.

Callie blushed. "There is that."

"Where's he going, has he said yet?"

"No," the petite blonde said with a worried tone. "He could go anywhere he wanted, but he wanted to stay close to home. He was all set to go to Bay U, and then that offer from NYU came."

Liz stopped sorting and looked at the other girl. "Yea, Chet told me about that. I guess it's really freaked Frank out."

"It really has," Callie nodded, continuing to sort the boxes. "But it's a full scholarship; tuition, books, even a single apartment in their off campus housing. He'd get a full ride in the faculty of his choosing."

"Damn," Liz shook her head and went back to work. "I know he's got his savings and some bonds his grandparents left him, but financially speaking alone that would be one offer hard to refuse."

"And you know Frank, he's practically a Vulcan: All logic that boy."

Laughing lightly Liz picked up one of the boxes. "Speaking of Hardy, here's his ring. Who knows, maybe he'll slip it onto that finger of yours tonight at the dance."

Callie reached across the table and took the tiny box from Liz. "I don't need a ring, Liz. Frank already knows I'm his for as long as he wants me."

Liz didn't hear Callie as she knit her brow in confusion and retrieved a second ring box. "Here's another one with Frank's name on it."

"Two rings?" Callie looked at the box in her hand.

The two exchanged glances and a smile crept onto Callie's face. Liz took the box from Callie and placed it next to the one in her hand. "Well, Ms Shaw, I think Prom is going to have more in store for you than hanging on the arm of this years Valedictorian."

A giggle erupted from their table, causing the others in the cafeteria to look at them curiously. Neither said anything and just continued working.

HBHBHB

Jerry Gilroy

"… And since there's injustice everywhere. Nowadays, when it's so tough on the streets, you do unto me and I'll do unto you. Just like the old testament says: 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.'"

"All right! Powerful, intelligent, concise writing from our boy Jerry!"

"Than you Mr Anderson," Jerry Gilroy smiled proudly.

The literature teacher shook the young man's hand. "Jerry, you'll do wonderful things with that scholarship to Stanford, but Bayport's ball team is going to miss one of its best outfielders."

Jerry took one of the handful of empty seats as Mr Anderson scanned the room of faces. "Still have time for a few more before you go pick up your caps and gowns. Since Mr Hardy isn't here to read his final composition, Miss Hastings? Why don't we-"

Mr Anderson looked at the man who stood framed in the doorway. "Yes, can I help you?"

HBHBHB

_Dear Mom,_

_I want you to know that I don't blame you. This hasn't been easy for you, and I'm sorry for acting mean sometimes. I know you've always done the best you could. No matter what people tell you, none of this is due to bad parenting._

_Sometimes, the extreme has to be taken. This is something that has to be done; that I have to do._

_I love you. _

_Forgive me. _

_P.S. If I die today, bury me some place beautiful._

_

* * *

_

A/N:

_Joe & Vanessa scene tweaked from Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 3, Episode 'Graduation Part I'_


	4. Chapter Two: Panic

_**Chapter Two: Panic**_

_Friday, June 11, 9:15am_

"Yes, can I help you?"

Mr Anderson walked between the rows of desks, his eyes watching the man with the black crew cut. The man was just shy of six feet, his body pale and lean. Bloodshot eyes scanned the students in the room, a scowl forming on the face.

"Where is he?" The young man's voice was grated, as though he had a sore throat.

"Waldo?" Mr Anderson asked, causing a ripple of chuckles from the students.

The man in the doorway glanced around again, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face. "He was supposed to be here. He was supposed to help me."

"If you tell me what it is you need," Mr Anderson took another step toward the door, "maybe I can help you."

"You're one of them."

The man lifted his arm.

A twelve gauge shot gun was held casually in his hand and before anyone could react he pulled the trigger.

Mr Anderson flew from his feet, colliding with several students, as the pellets tore into his body.

Another shot was fired.

Jerry felt the bullet rip through his shoulder as the force of the shot lifted him from his desk.

A third shot.

Another student collapsed onto her desk, blood oozing from her white t-shirt.

The gunman walked into the hallway.

HBHBHB

WABOOM!

Joe Hardy stiffened as the muffled rumble echoed through the walls. A heavy, lead weight formed in his stomach as his mind searched to recognize the noise.

"Was that thunder?" one of the boys asked, getting up from his desk and looking out the window.

WABOOM!

Joe was on his feet, along with several other students. He knew that sound.

"Back in your seats," Mr Prince walked across the room to the door. "Everyone just stay calm. Stay here, I'll be right back." Cautiously, the teacher exited the room and closed the door behind him.

WABOOM!

Vanessa clung onto Joe's arm. "Joe…?"

In the hall, several doors were opening as students and teachers came to investigate the noise. None were prepared for what greeted them

The gunman stepped out of Mr Anderson's classroom and fired his shotgun at the first person he saw.

The students began to scream and ran for the exits.

The gunman fired at anyone in his sights.

Students, teachers, anyone that moved was a target for the man.

Mr Prince barrelled back into the room. "Everyone, get under your desks!" he ordered, slamming the door behind him. "Now! Move it!"

No one in the room hesitated, hearing the sound for what it was now.

Gunshots punctuated screams and thundering footsteps outside the door as the students ducked beneath their desks.

Vanessa crawled over to Joe and he held her close as a shot sounded directly outside their classroom door. She didn't say anything, only shook in his arms.

The main hall of Bayport High was pandemonium. Chet grabbed Mrs Sims and pulled her into the office, a shotgun blast taking a chunk out of the wall where she had been standing a second earlier.

Bodies of the dead and injured lay where they fell.

A pause in the shooting came when the man bent to one knee and opened a backpack flung over his shoulder. Many took advantage in the momentary lull and bolted for the front doors. The gunman took out a handful of more shotgun shells and loaded them into the gun. Once he was reloaded, he started walking again.

And shooting.

Inside the cafeteria, all activity had stopped. Miss Taylor walked before the five students to the closed doors of the large room. They could hear the screams, and their blood ran cold at the sounds coming from the hall outside.

"Wait here," Miss Taylor said, putting a hand on the door.

She stepped outside, the door closing behind her. Her silhouette moved away from frosted window in the door.

Liz took a step away from the others, only to scream along with them when a flash illuminated the glass with a thunderous crack. Instinctively she flung the door open only to see Miss Taylor's body fall lifeless into a pool of her own blood.

Breathless, Liz looked up at the man that stood only a few feet away and the gun that was pointed at her face.

Someone pushed the young reporter out of the way the same instant the weapon fired.

Falling to the floor, Liz gasped at the sudden jolt of pain in her shoulder. She heard a thud come from the table next to her and looked up at a hand hanging over the edge. Blood dripped rapidly from the fingertips and onto Liz's face.

Peering past the motionless arm, Liz screamed.

HBHBHB

_Friday, June 11, 9:25am_

Lights flashing, sirens blaring, dozens of emergency vehicles pulled into the parking lot of Bayport High School.

Through the windows of the school, the red lights flashed across the walls and the face of the dark haired shooter. As though he'd been in a trance, he jerked around trying to get his bearings.

In a shadowed corner next to a set of stairs, Biff watched the gunman carefully. Several other students fled past him, pleading for their lives as they went. Seeing the gunman turn away from him, Biff made his move.

He took a few running steps toward the man, but he was too slow. The weapon turned to him and he pulled up only a few inches from the barrel of the shotgun.

"You!" The gunman grabbed Biff by the collar of his shirt. "Come here! Don't move!"

"All right," Biff yelled as he was spun around and a surprisingly strong arm was wrapped around his shoulders.

"Don't move!" The gunman pressed his back against a wall and looked around. "I want the teachers out of the building!" He shouted to no one in particular. "If I see any police, I'm going to kill everyone!"

With that final shout, he forced Biff across the hall. "Open it!"

Biff flinched at the sudden shout in his ear and pushed the door to the classroom open. Forced inside he stumbled over his own feet and hit the edge of the teacher's desk. The students inside were hiding beneath their desks, and Biff watched as Mr Prince rose from the floor when the shotgun was pointed at him.

"You a teacher?" the gunman asked the older man. Mr Prince nodded, only to slam into the opposite wall when the shotgun fired at close range.

Several of the girls screamed and Biff could only stare at the teacher's body.

"Everyone up!" the man shouted, slamming the door behind him. "Get those desks in front of the windows, now!"

No one moved at first, but when he fired the gun into the ceiling the boys in the class were on their feet and moving the desks as instructed.

Biff was next to Joe, lifting one desk on top of another to create a barricade against the windows. "We can take him," Biff said in a whisper.

Joe glanced over his shoulder at the man. The gunman's eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, and bloodshot. He was sweating profusely as he set his backpack on the teacher's desk at the front of the room.

Then Joe's bright blue eyes were drawn to the bleeding body against the wall. He shook his head. "We'll get someone else killed. We ride this out, let the cops handle him, and pray he doesn't snap further."


	5. Chapter Three: Mortality

_**Chapter Three: Mortality**_

_Friday, June 11, 9:45am_

"Get those kids out of here!"

Officer Con Riley had been one of the first on the chaotic scene at Bayport High. The small town department was ill prepared for something of this magnitude. Still, the police were managing to get control of the situation outside, though they were hesitant to enter the building.

Students that managed to escape the carnage inside were immediately escorted by the police and teachers across the street to the evacuated Junior High. The wounded were being assessed in a makeshift triage unit in the parking lot. Police were securing a perimeter around the high school, watching all exits and windows as students were taking any opportunity to get out of the building alive.

More squad cars pulled into the already over flowing parking lot and Con was relieved to see Chief Collig climbing from one of the cars. A SWAT van was the last to pull into the lot.

"What do we know, Riley?" Collig asked, his face a mask of grim determination.

Con shook his head. "Not a lot. Gunman walked right in the main entrance. Groundskeeper saw him, average build average look, but didn't recognize him as a student. Witnesses say he never got off the ground floor. He's barricaded himself in one of the classrooms and says if we go in, he starts shooting. We don't know how many hostages he's got in there."

"Dear god," Collig looked around at the war zone that surrounded him. "Any contact with the gunman?"

"None."

"Shit." The chief growled and was silent for a few seconds before turning to another office behind him. "Cut the power. Then get on the horn and get me the box. We need to talk to this son of a bitch."

"Yes Sir."

"And get a Negotiator from the State Protection Agency here now! Send the chopper for him. I want him here in fifteen minutes!"

HBHBHB

He was pacing back and forth, his eyes wide and wild. His movements were jerky and the shotgun, lying not far away on the teacher's desk, had been replaced with an automatic pistol. He kept shaking his head, muttering words to himself no one else could hear. He hardly seemed to notice the kids gathered together at the back of the room.

But Joe noticed him.

Joe watched the gunman very carefully, seeing the dangers beyond the gun. The man was sick. His skin looked pasty and white, and he was acting delirious. Biff was right, they could take him but Joe knew that, if they failed, the consequences could be deadly.

A trembling arm hooked through his elbow, and Joe turned his head to look into the panicked face of his girlfriend. "He's going to kill us, isn't he?" she whispered.

Looking back at the gunman, Joe shook his head. "No, he's just trying to scare us."

"But he killed Mr Prince." The words came out with a shuddering sob and the sound caught the man's attention.

"What was that?" the gunman demanded, storming to the back of the room, his weapon pointed in front of him. "What was that noise?!" He aimed the weapon at one student, and then another, his targets shrinking away in an attempt to avoid getting shot. "Was it you? Or you?"

"It was me," Joe said when the weapon was pointed at Vanessa, who cowered behind him.

The barrel of the gun turned on him. "Didn't I tell you to be quiet?"

"I was just saying I wished you'd let us move Mr Prince," Joe replied calmly, motioning with his head to the teacher's body. He gritted his teeth when the cold metal was pressed against his temple. A few of the students stifled screams and turned away.

"And why should I let you do that, huh?"

"The girls are scared enough," Joe said through his clenched teeth. "They don't need to see that."

A few tense seconds passed and finally the gun was removed from his head. He felt his heart start beating again and held back the sigh of relief. "Fine, you can move him. But just you!"

Vanessa clung tighter to his arm, not wanting to let him go, but he just gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before prying it off. The gunman followed Joe to the front of the room.

Mr Prince's eyes were open and locked in a gaze of pain and surprise. Joe fought the urge to vomit and leaned down to close them. He had seen dead bodies before, but never of someone he knew or liked.

And not like this.

Crossing the dead man's arms over the bloody mess that was Mr Prince's chest, Joe hooked his hands beneath the shoulders and started dragging the body toward the door. The gunman pushed the door open a crack, peering out into the hall before stepping out of the way to let Joe take the body out of the room.

"Put it there," the man ordered, motioning to the bottom of the stairs directly across from the door.

On the other side of the door, Joe was not prepared for what he saw. There were holes in the walls, in doors, lockers hanging off their hinges. He could see straight down the hall to the main entrance of the school, but his eyes registered nothing but the bodies that littered the floor.

More than a dozen lay dead or dying in the hall.

He gently let Mr Prince's body come to a rest at the bottom of the stairs and stood up straight, his clothes now stained with the teacher's blood. Joe's sapphire eyes burned with rage as they locked with the black eyes of the gunman.

The gunman tilted his head to the side, his gaze never faltering or moving from Joe's. A sardonic grin played across his lips. "What's your name?"

"Joe. You?"

A grim chuckle was his response. "Get back inside."

HBHBHB

Tony listened with his ear pressed against the door. His pounding heart made it difficult to hear anything past his own fear, but when he heard nothing for a minute or more he turned to Mrs Chaplin. "I don't think he's out there anymore."

The thirty-something woman nodded and looked to the class of more than twenty students that were crouched on the floor. "Sooner or later," she whispered to the teens, "he is going to realize there are more people left in the building. We can't be here when he does. Single file, stay against the walls as much as you can, and keep low. Guys, if you can reach one of the wounded grab them and bring them with us."

Phil nodded along with the rest of the seniors.

The door clicked faintly as Tony turned the knob to open it. He flinched at the sound, but when nothing happened in the corridor he pushed it open a sliver. One by one, the students slipped out of the classroom and into the nightmarish hall.

Mrs Chaplin scurried to the room next door, Mr Anderson's class room. The first shots had come from there. Tony and another of the boys were behind her and stood protectively on either side of her as she opened the already ajar door further.

It was only when she saw what was propping the door open that she almost lost her composure. One of the injured students had obviously tried to crawl to the door, but the gunshot wound to his neck and shoulder had been too much. He'd bled out before he got very far.

"Get her out of here," Tony hissed to the other boy, gently guiding Mrs Chaplin away from the grisly sight.

The boy nodded and took the teacher by the arm.

Tony looked past the body and peered into the room. "Hello?" He called in a hoarse whisper. "Is there anyone in here?"

"Help me," a girl's voice pleaded. "I can't get the bleeding to stop."

Tony stepped over the body and crept over to the blood caked girl. She held her hands tightly over a wound on Mr Anderson's stomach. The literature teacher was gasping for breath like a fish out of water.

Lifting the t-shirt over his head, Tony pressed the material over the girl's hands and applied pressure to the wound. He leaned down, looking at the girl's frightened face. "Stephanie? We need to get him out of here, but we've got to do it quietly. The guy's only two rooms down from here."

The raven haired girl nodded and positioned herself across from Tony, her arms slipping underneath Mr Anderson's body. "On three?"

He was impressed. The girls in his class had fallen apart. Stephanie had been right in the epicentre of it all and was not only keeping her cool, but trying to help someone else. "On three," he agreed.

HBHBHB

"-three and four and five! One and two and three and four and five! One and two and three and four and five… Come on Mrs Sims! Breathe!"

Chet desperately continued the chest compressions on the older woman. She had collapsed seconds after he had pulled her back into the office. She had been conscious, mostly, but complained of chest pains. He knew she was having a heart attack, but didn't risk moving her while the gunman was still out there.

And then, a few minutes ago, her heart had stopped all together.

"One and two and three and four and five! One and two and three and four and five! One and two and-"

"Chet?!" Phil rushed over to his friend's side, his eyes wide at the sight of the elderly woman's state.

"Give her a breath for me," Chet snapped.

Without even thinking, Phil bent low over the secretary and blew twice into her mouth. The pair worked in silence for another minute before Mrs Chaplin ducked into the office.

"Oh god," she moaned, seeing the older woman. She put a hand on Phil's shoulder and shook her head. "She had a bad heart," she explained. "She was being retired today."

Chet gave a few more compressions then stopped when Mrs Chaplin pulled at his arms. He started to protest. "I can still-"

Taking in a shuddering breath, Chet removed his jacket and placed it over Mrs Sim's head and shoulders. Without a word, he followed Mrs Chaplin and the rest out of the school.


	6. Chapter Four: Little Brothers

_**Chapter Four: Little Brothers**_

_Friday, June 11, 10:20am_

The building stood tall and lonely, framed against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. The once warm red tiles on the roof seemed dull and rested heavily on top of the walls. Beneath those tiles, the windows sat like sightless eyes staring out onto the half mowed lawn. It was said that windows were the eyes to the soul. These windows had no soul, and no one could see beyond the inky darkness that filled the space beyond the shutters.

On the lawn, dead leaves drifted, swept helplessly to and fro by the parched summer breeze. They swirled wildly past the foot path, and onto the steps to rest in a careless pile before a tall and forbidding set of double doors.

The doors opened, like a huge yawning mouth, nudged by the persistence of the scorching wind. The leaves on the steps trembled for an instant in the leftover breeze before they were swept, unwillingly, through that hungry mouth into the dark and silent hallway.

Another gust of wind came in through a shattered window and the leaves tumbled further in, down a long grey and empty corridor. The leaves tumbled reluctantly on, pushed onward by the merciless motion of the wind.

And, when they finally came to rest, before them sat a pair of eyes.

Sightless and opened wide…

HBHBHB

The building was totally lifeless. With the exception of that one room located at the end of that long corridor. In the only populated room in the entire building, the temperature was rising steadily.

_Both literally and metaphorically_, Joe thought.

He watched carefully as the gunman paced nervously up and down the width of the room. He noted the flushed face, the sweaty brows, and the constantly shivery hands.

_That man is seriously sick_, Joe realized.

That was bad.

Then, Joe also noticed that the gunman had a look in his eyes; the look of a cornered and trapped beast being pushed to the edge of endurance.

…_And desperate._

That was doubly bad.

What was it his father said about sick and desperate animals?

_Come on, Hardy, remember, because that's what you're facing right now._

Yet, despite it all, the gunman was amazingly clear-headed and methodological in all his actions. He had them close all windows – regardless of the lack of power or air conditioning – and stacked the chairs and desks into defensive positions. He had ensured that there were no possible lines of sight from the outside world, which was an amazing feat, considering they were on the ground floor.

Joe continued watching as the gunman, when he finally stopped pacing, sat down at the edge of the teacher's desk, his eyes still flicking alertly but nervously over all of his captives. Then he started to play with his gun. First he started to snap the magazine in and out; no doubt confident he would be the quicker should anyone try anything. After all, the shotgun was only inches away from his grasp. But it was what happened next that chilled Joe.

The gunman had, within a minute, disassembled the pistol and reassembled it.

Joe knew of only one other person who could accomplish the same feat.

The sounds of a helicopter rotor startled the entire room of people into alertness. The gunman edged jerkily towards the window and peeked out. Whatever he saw must have angered him tremendously, for his face suddenly snarled into a savage, inhuman mask.

Spinning to face all his captives, he turned his gun on all of them. With an expert flick of his finger, he switched off the safety catch and his finger began to move on the trigger.

Most of the students shrank back in horror, too terrified even to squeak. A number were too stunned to move.

Then Joe stood up and placed himself directly in the line of fire. He stood there and stared straight past the barrel of the gun, and into the bright fevered eyes of the gunman.

_Come on_, Joe willed the gunman to hear him. _You don't want to do this… you kept us alive this long because you want something… if you kill us it'll all be over… Come on, don't do this…_

The finger tightened on the trigger.

But Joe ignored it and continued to focus on the gunman. He kept his gaze steady and showed no fear.

That's what it was. His father always said, show fear to a cornered animal and it's over.

Joe lifted his hands slowly as a gesture of surrender and submission. He continued to look the gunman in the eye…

_Come on, you want something… shooting us won't get you that…_

Joe could feel the sweat pouring down his back. He could only hope the gunman did not realize how terrified he was.

Then slowly, the gunman lowered his gun.

Joe breathed a sigh of relief.

Relief turned to consternation as the gunman suddenly reached out and grabbed him, spun him around and prodded him towards one of the windows with that gun.

HBHBHB

The scene around the school building was surprisingly quiet, considering the drama that had just occurred.

Or perhaps he was just blocking out all the noise?

He could see the police officers busying themselves securing the scene, keeping the crowd at a safe distance, and helping reassure and resettle those students who successfully escaped from the ill-fated shooting before directing them into the Junior High behind him.

The media, as usual, were pressing against the barricades in an attempt to get access to real eyewitness accounts. They didn't care for those lives still in danger inside. And behind them, the crowd gathered. They were worse, hungry for more sensational news, but always from behind the safety of the barricades.

He could see those injured screaming in pain. He could see a good number of students wailing in terror, clearly still in shock. He watched dispassionately as the paramedics rushed to and fro, tending to their patients. He could almost feel the flashing red and blue lights as they reflected off his face from the nearby police car.

But none of that meant anything to him.

His entire being was focused on that one set of windows at the end of the school building. That was the room his brother was in… with that damned gunman. The situation was extremely volatile. He knew. He could feel it in his heart and soul that Joe was currently facing down an explosive situation.

Damn Collig for keeping such a close eye on him!

Joe was in danger, and he needed to be in there with his brother. Not out here feeling useless and helpless. It wasn't that he didn't have faith in his brother's ability to handle the situation, quite the opposite actually. It was the gunman he didn't trust. And for that reason, he needed to be inside.

Nearby, Chief Ezra Collig was tersely giving instructions via his radio. He was demanding to know when the negotiator would arrive. In the mess of people moving about seemingly without direction, Chief Collig stood tall and firm, a bulwark in the aftermath of a disaster.

And at the moment, he knew that the police chief had half an eye on him all the time. He could see the anxiety in the chief's gaze every time it fell on him. But he could not find it in himself to tell the chief the words that would set poor Collig's mind at ease.

So Frank Hardy stood there, staring grimly at the building, his fingers clenched bloodless with fear for Joe and terrible anger against the shooter.

No, not just a shooter, but a killer.

How many of his friends and teacher had that shooter killed already?

He needed to be in there, but not yet. Not with Collig watching him that closely. But the chance would come, and may God have mercy for the gunman if his brother was hurt in any way.

Frank would have none.

Something distracted his attention from those windows that were closed to him. He looked up into the sky and saw the helicopter heading their way. Soon it landed in the fields, and a man alighted from it. He saw Con Riley swiftly lead the man through the crowd towards him and Chief Collig.

The negotiator had arrived.

Frank observed that man from where he stood. He was a man of slight stature, five nine at most, but with a muscular build. There was something familiar about his dark green eyes, but Frank was too distracted to pay too much attention to the dark haired man.

He watched as the negotiator exchanged some words with Collig and several others. His eyes followed the newcomer as he donned his bullet-proof vest and hooked on all the standard surveillance gear.

Then, as the man made ready to move into the school building with two SWAT officers as backup, they were halted by a terrified gasp that rippled through the crowd.

One of the windows to that room opened.

The blood in Frank's veins froze when he saw his brother standing there, hands curled into tight fists, with a dark shadow barely visible behind him.

The gunman was behind his brother.

The negotiator moved forward slowly, alone, with his hands held high to show that he had no weapons and that he was not planning anything. He continued to move until he was standing directly in front of the window and directly facing Joe.

Then he called out in a loud and clear voice.

"I'm here…"


	7. Chapter Five: The Art of Communication

_**Chapter Five: The Art of Communication**_

_Friday, June 11, 10:35am_

"I'm here…"

Two simple words.

Yet with those words, the barrier between the outside world and the one inside the classroom was breached.

With the desks pushed aside, through the thin panes of glass Joe could see the organized chaos of the police and spectators beyond the stone walls of the school. Yet through the masses he could make out the one person he needed to know was safe.

Knowing that Frank hadn't been in the school when the shooting started was of little comfort to Joe. But it was a relief now to see him standing a few feet away from Chief Collig next to a wooden police barricade, alive and in one piece

A movement in front of him drew his eyes onto the face of the negotiator who stood a world away, though in reality only a few feet. This was the man that was here to save their lives, and in that instant Joe felt a great appreciation for the man.

A blur of black at his periphery pulled his attention and his eyes widened at the sight of the gun next to his head. It was directed toward the negotiator and there was no hesitation as the trigger was pulled. Joe's head snapped away from the weapon, the powder residue singeing his cheek the same instant the glass shattered.

There was a brief moment of pandemonium outside as people scrambled for cover, fearing more gunfire. When Joe looked outside again, his ears ringing from the close proximity of the shot, he thought for a moment the negotiator was dead from the way he was sprawled out on the ground.

But then the man rolled onto his side and got to his feet, his vest bearing the scar of the bullet, instead of his flesh.

His jade eyes bored angrily into the shadow of the gunman behind his hostage. "You've got my attention," the man managed calmly, though he was obviously shaken. "So why don't you tell me what this is all about?"

"Simple," the gunman hissed from behind him. "You bastards have been hiding him from me!"

"Who?"

"My brother, dipshit!"

That was probably the last thing Joe had expected him to say. He knew he'd do a lot of things for his own brother, but shooting up a school of kids?

"He was supposed to be here," the gunman continued. "I've spent months finding him and he was supposed to be here! No one would have gotten hurt, we would have just left! And now, you're keeping him from me! Even after all this, you're still not taking me seriously! But you will!"

The grip on the back of Joe's shirt was gone a second before he felt the hand grip his hair and yank his head back. The still warm muzzle of the gun was pressed into the soft flesh beneath his chin and his breath caught in his throat.

"Whoa whoa whoa!" The negotiator shouted frantically. "Believe me; we're taking this situation very seriously! You just haven't given us enough time!"

Instinctively, Joe had sought out the last face he wanted to see before he died. He looked to the last spot he had seen Frank and momentarily forgot about his precarious position when he couldn't find Frank right away. Then Joe saw him, now a little closer to the school and being pulled back by Collig and another uniformed officer.

He couldn't help the small grin that touched the corner of his lips as Frank was escorted into the back of the SWAT truck. Normally, Joe was the hot-headed one. Though he couldn't exactly fault his brother for charging toward the building. He'd have done the same thing had their places been reversed.

The negotiator had kept talking, though Joe hadn't heard a word he said. But the pressure of the weapon under his chin lessened and he was suddenly pulled back from the window. The next second the stack of desks was moved back into place.

Joe was pushed toward the back of the room and he stumbled a little as he was prodded along by the gun. He sat next to Vanessa who enveloped him in her arms as soon as he was beside her. She was trembling, tears silently running down her cheeks.

"You," the gunman pulled another teen to his feet and shoved him to the door. "You've got two minutes. Grab the phone they're sending in, or I start shooting your friends. Got it?"

"Y- yes sir." The boy was running out of the room a second later.

The gunman went back to the front of the room, mumbling once more to himself. "… lies… saw him… liars…"

Joe caught a few of the words as the man walked away. His attention had been on Frank during the exchange with the negotiator, but if this guy was desperate enough to do something like this to get his brother, maybe he had been able to pick him out of the crowd as Joe had found Frank.

Regardless, even if the guy's brother was out there, there was no way the cops would let him come into the school.

HBHBHB

As soon as visual had been lost, the negotiator had turned away from the school and sprinted back to the tactical truck that was to be the staging area. He was removing the vest, hissing at the pain that laced through his ribs, as he climbed the metal stairs into the back of the truck.

He came up short though at the sight that greeted him. Standing against the far wall of the van was a young man with dark hair, probably seventeen or eighteen, and glaring venomously at the Bayport Police Chief.

"Collig?"

Ezra glanced over his shoulder at the negotiator. "Agent Sean Younger, meet Frank Hardy." He looked back at the boy with a sympathetic scowl. "His brother was the hostage at the window."

"Doesn't explain why he's inside my truck," Sean said evenly, handing the vest to a SWAT technician sitting in one of the only two chairs bolted to the floor. "If the shot didn't damage the camera, I may have gotten an image of our gunman."

"Yes, Sir." The technician went to work.

"Trust me," Collig answered the negotiator. "He's better off in here than out there. Just now he tried to get to the school."

"I wasn't about to watch that bastard shoot my brother!" Frank snarled.

"You would have gotten him, and everyone else, killed, Mr Hardy," Sean stated, sitting heavily in the remaining chair. "But as long as you're here, you can help me out. How well do you know the students in your school?"

Frank levelled another glare at Collig before turning to the negotiator. "Okay, I guess."

"He's valedictorian this year," Collig interjected.

"Then tell me, how many kids would he have in there?"

Sean could see a calm instantly come over the young man. "That would depend," Frank answered, stepping away from the wall. "I know what room he's in. Mr Prince is my brother's English teacher and that's where he would have been, but who knows if he'd take anyone from the other classrooms or the hallway."

Sean grabbed a rolled up blue print and unrolled it on a small table. "We're getting statements from the students that have made it out, and we know he started here." He pointed to a classroom in the middle of the schematic.

The color drained from Frank's face. "Mr Anderson's class. I have him first period for College Prep Literature."

"So you would know who was absent this morning?"

He shook his head. "No, I was at an appointment, but it's a senior class. If anyone didn't show up today, without prior consent, they wouldn't graduate. Mr Anderson would know who else wasn't there."

"Mr Anderson's on his way to the hospital," Collig said carefully. "He was shot."

Sean watched the boy's calm exterior falter. "So the office would know who was to be there but wasn't?"

"Yea," was the shaky response. "If no one skipped, anyway."

Collig was out the door in an instant.

Rolling up the blue print, Sean studied the young man as Frank lowered his head and rested his hands wearily on the edge of the table. "I'll get your brother out, Frank," he assured the boy.

With a nod, Frank glanced at the seasoned negotiator. "Younger? Any relation to Detective Brian Younger?"

"My little brother."

"Sir," a member of the SWAT team breathlessly entered the back of the truck. "Communications' good, sir."

Before he could comment, the technician called to Sean. "Sir, I got a face."

Looking at the monitor in front of the technician, Sean studied the enhanced image of the gunman. "That's him. Run it through every database we've got. I want a name to go with this bastard's face."

"Peter…"

Sean turned around at the barely audible voice. The expression on Frank Hardy's face was one of bewilderment.

"Peter," Frank said again, his voice soft and puzzled. "His name is Peter McKay."


	8. Chapter Six: Crash and Burn

_**Chapter Six: Crash and Burn**_

_Friday, June 11, 10:50am_

It took a while for Joe to still his trembling hands, and longer for him to get his tensed and tight muscles to finally loosen. He owed part of that to Vanessa's soothing embrace and Biff's strong hands lying reassuringly on his back. Several of his fellow classmates offered him comforting looks, and he returned a wan smile.

He'd had several close shaves with death in his short, but very eventful, life. But never like this; where he could, so clearly, see death staring back at him with absolute certainty. Never like this; where he just might die in plain sight of his fellow friends and classmates on a clear and very ordinary summer morning.

It was… unnerving.

Finally, he willed himself into some semblance of control, and returned his eyes back to the restless gunman before him. The gunman ignored the briefcase containing the communication device that the negotiator had managed to pass in.

The gunman stilled as he realized that he was being scrutinized by one of his captives. He returned Joe's observing gaze with his own unwavering stare.

Joe noted that the gunman's eyes, though bloodshot and weary, no longer held the same desperate and savage intensity that had led to that terrifying confrontation with the negotiator just moments ago. Instead, the eyes now burned with a mixture of a certain determination and almost fatalistic acceptance of what was to come.

It was a frightening countenance.

"You're different from the others," the gunman suddenly addressed Joe.

"Why?" Joe asked as he ignored the gunman's comments. "Why are you doing this?"

Joe ignored the sharp gasp from Vanessa. He was taking a risk, he knew that. But since the gunman had chosen to engage him, he might as well make use of that opportunity.

The gunman casually played with his gun, his eyes on Joe, as if daring Joe to act.

Joe wisely ignored the bait. He waited. He could feel Vanessa trembling behind him. He could feel her fingers biting painfully deep into his arms. He shifted just slightly, making sure that he was fully shielding her.

"You care for her," the gunman commented.

Joe stiffened and clenched his fists.

"Just relax, kid. She'll be fine. For now," the gunman told him, then his expression took on a faraway look and he continued. "You care, so you can understand what it is like to have someone you care about taken away from you…"

The gunman turned and looked at Joe with such intensity, it was almost as if he was pleading for some sort of understanding, and to some extent, Joe found he did understand it.

"I had an older brother, died when I was just a kid. I was devastated. Practically worshipped him, and then he was gone. Then I got a younger brother and for a long time it was just him and me. My mom, his dad, they weren't there for us. It was me he relied on; me to take care of him, to protect him. Then they just took him away."

The gunman leaned down closer to Joe.

"What would you do if one day you woke up and your brother was just gone? You didn't know where he was; if he was hurt or dead; if he was crying out for you but you couldn't get to him. How would that make you feel, knowing that your brother was out there somewhere waiting for you to come find him?"

A familiar ache clutched at Joe's heart. He knew that feeling.

"That's why we're here now," the gunman went on. "I've found my brother. It's taken me a long time, but I know he's here. And they're still trying to keep him from me."

"So you're killing innocent people to get to him?" Biff snarled.

The gunman turned towards Biff, his anger clear in his stance. "No one here is innocent!"

Joe quickly moved to intercede. "I understand. My brother was taken from me once. For months I waited and I feared… We were lucky; we got him back."

Joe kept his eyes fixed on the gunman, hoping desperately that his words would get through. He opened up his mind to those old memories, letting those fears and doubts wash through him again, and prayed that the gunman could see it through his eyes.

The gunman relaxed a little. Then his eyes started to tear, which he angrily wiped away.

"Then you understand what I am doing and why."

Joe ignored that but instead focused on the key issue.

"Tell me about your little brother," Joe said. "I can help you find him. I'm a detective, so is my brother and dad. We really can help you. You can ask anyone here if you don't believe me."

Joe gestured to everyone in the class, and they all collaborated by nodding or saying something.

Then Joe tried to wheedle more information out of the gunman. "Why not start with your brother's name?"

The gunman frowned; he looked like he was having a very bad headache. His grip on his gun tightened.

"Okay… you don't have to tell me his name, how about what he looked like?" Joe hastily backtracked.

"Dark brown hair and brown eyes…"

"His features? Face shape? Jaw line?" Joe prompted.

"He has…" The gunman suddenly paused and stared at Joe. He stared with such intensity that Joe suddenly felt nervous. He felt very nervous.

"What was your name again? Joe, right?" The gunman asked his tone remarkably calm and controlled given what had just transpired, his gun suddenly pointing at Biff.

"Yea, Joe."

"Joe… what?" The gunman pressed, his voice rising until he was almost screaming. "Joe what? Before I shoot him!"

"Hardy!" Joe yelled back. "Joseph Hardy. Now, calm down. Before someone gets hurt!"

The gunman took a step back, his expression suddenly contemplative. Then he smiled. Joe on the other hand could feel chills up his spine.

"Does your brother have a cell phone with him all the time?" He asked Joe, his gun still aimed at Biff.

"Yes," Joe responded.

"Good." The gunman stormed to the forgotten case on the desk and threw the lid open. He took the cordless phone from its battery pack and threw it at Joe. "Call him."

HBHBHB

_Friday, June 11, 10:50am_

There was a strained silence at Frank's words, and he couldn't say he was surprised by it. What did surprise him was the name burning in his mind every time he saw the gunman's face. It was strange, not knowing who someone was and yet knowing them at the same time.

Peter McKay. The name meant something to him, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Frank," Sean Younger started carefully, watching Frank closely as he spoke, "you know this guy?"

Peter McKay… There was something just at the edge of his memory but he couldn't grasp it. He shook his head. "I don't remember ever seeing him before in my life."

"But you know his name?"

"It may not be his name." Even as he said it Frank knew it wasn't true.

The technician started typing at the keyboard of his computer. Sean's eyes never wavered from Frank's face as they waited, and a short minute later the technician spoke. "I got him."

Finally, the negotiator turned from the perplexed boy and looked at the information pulled from the police database. "Peter McKay," he confirmed. "Age twenty-two… San Diego, California… reported missing two days ago from an Oncology Hospice in Columbus, Ohio."

"Oncology Hospice?" Frank was standing next to Sean, leaning over the technician and scanning the file for himself. "What would bring a terminal cancer patient half way across the country to start shooting up a school?"

"You tell me."

There was a tone to the negotiators voice that put Frank on the defensive. He looked over at the man with a scowl. "How would I know why he's here, Agent Younger?"

"You knew his name, Frank," Sean pointed out rationally. "A glance at an out of focus picture and you knew his name. Maybe you know more than that. Like who this brother of his is?"

"My brother just had a gun held to his head," Frank spat bitterly. "I'd tell you anything I knew if it meant I could get him out of there."

The tension between the two men was palpable, each staring intently at the other, neither willing to blink. After another moment passed, Sean finally nodded. "I believe you," he said, seeing the distress barely concealed beneath the young man's strong exterior, "But it still doesn't explain how you know who he is."

They were interrupted by the return of Chief Collig. Preceding him up the steps into to tactical truck was a woman in her early fifties wearing a burgundy power suit.

"Why am I not surprised to see you in here, Mr Hardy?" The woman asked in a husky voice. "I take it you, and your brother, are working on one of your cases which is responsible for this atrocity?"

Frank blanched at the woman's accusation, but her allegation was answered by someone else.

"That is really none of your concern, Ma'am," Sean responded coolly, "But neither Mr Hardy, nor his brother, is responsible for this situation in any way. Now, who are you?"

"Vice Principal Kasyndra Beaumont," the woman bristled. "Chief Collig said something about absentee senior students from one of the classes?"

Quietly excusing himself, Frank moved past the others in the truck and hurried down the stairs. He was stung by Mrs Beaumont's words, more than he would have thought.

He had justly, and unjustly, carried the blame for many things since he and Joe had started investigating with their father and on their own, but never for something as horrific as this. Yes, many of their cases were dangerous and people's lives had been lost, but involving themselves in anything that would have resulted in the terrorization of their own school and friends…

It was unthinkable to him, and it hurt him deeply that anyone who knew him and his brother would think it.

"She's just trying to understand," Ezra's voice sounded quietly behind him. "I don't think she meant what she said."

A rueful half smile touched Frank's lips. "You don't know Mrs Beaumont very well then. She never says anything she doesn't mean."

Knowing the young man before him as he did, Chief Collig was disturbed by the look on Frank's face. He looked defeated, but more puzzling was the guilt burning in those rich brown eyes. Uncharacteristically, Collig let the compassion he felt for the Hardys show and placed a strong hand on the boy's shoulder. "Joe'll be all right, Frank. You both have been in tough situations before."

Frank shook his head, gazing toward the building with a frightened expression. "Not like this, Chief."

"Chief," the SWAT tech poked his head outside the truck, "Younger's getting something from the inside."

Then Frank's cell phone rang.

There was no caller ID.

He answered it.

"Frank?"

"Joe?!" Frank exclaimed, his eyes wildly scanning at that window and then turning to Collig.

Collig was already signalling to the others that Frank got a call from the inside, and Sean came rushing out.

**Keep him talking**, Sean hastily scribbled on a notepad and Frank nodded.

"Are you okay, Joe?" Frank asked as he turned the volume of his phone to the max.

"Yea…" He felt the relief rushing through him, but the tone of his brother's voice didn't let it linger for long.

**Try to get Peter on the phone**, Sean wrote even as he leaned close to hear snippets of the conversation.

Again Frank nodded. "What is going on in there, Joe? What does he want?"

"Frank, he wants me to tell you that he is holding his gun aimed at my head and that he only wants to talk to you or else…"

"Get him on the phone, Joe! We can try to give him what he wants-"

"Hello Frank… do you remember me?" another voice took over.

_Why did that voice sound so familiar?_ Frank wondered.

**Ask him what he wants**, Sean wrote, but Frank ignored that this time.

"No, I don't know you," Frank snarled as he took a step away from the negotiator, "and I suggest you keep my brother safe, or else there will be hell to pay!"

Frank could see Sean's angry and frustrated look, and how Sean almost made to take over the phone. He could not help but feel a slight satisfaction when Sean suddenly backed off. He must have remembered the gunman's warning.

"Lower the volume, Frank."

He did, and the frustration on everyone's expressions doubled.

"Done," Frank said curtly.

"Here's the deal, you get in here, and I let all the girls go. Take it or leave it." And the line went dead, leaving behind a very stunned Frank.

"Okay, what did he want?" Sean asked.

Everyone was staring at him, curiosity clear on their faces.

Finally, he answered. "Me."

There was a furor of outburst after that, but Frank barely noticed. He was still trying to grasp the rationale of the happenings before him. Then a wisp of a memory flashed by, only to be gone an instant later, and he knew he had to get inside that building.

He could hear the rush of action behind him as Sean prepared to make a call to the inside. He knew Peter would not answer. Peter got to say what he wanted to say already.

Frank kept his dazed expression and watched.

He watched for the opening.

And when it came – that second that no one was watching him - he ran.

He dodged past all the police officers and made a beeline for the school building. He could hear Sean and Collig yelling for him to stop and for others to catch him. He ignored them all. He could hear them chasing him, but that only made him run even faster.

From the shattered window, several shots were fired and the dirt in front of the pursuing officers exploded from the impacts, bringing their chase to a frantic halt as they scrambled for cover.

He got in through the doors and slammed them behind him.

Breathing hard from his impromptu sprint, Frank took a moment to steady himself before turning to start down the hall.

He hadn't got a foot away from the door when he staggered against the wall, his breath frozen in his chest at the sight that greeted him.

A moment hadn't been long enough…


	9. Chapter Seven: The Red Mile

_**Chapter Seven: The Red Mile**_

_Friday, June 11, 11:00am_

The silence of the building was stifling. Where were the sounds of life he had come to expect whenever he entered those front doors? As he started down the hall, he knew his answer.

His heart constricted at the view of his fellow students, bloodied and broken, lying where they had fallen. He closed his eyes to the grisly sight, to images he knew would haunt him to the end of his days.

_All because of me…_

Frank took a deep breath, fighting not to gag on the bile that burned the back of his throat at the overpowering coppery smell of blood, and kept his eyes forward. He avoided looking directly at the bodies as he moved around them.

Halfway down the corridor, Frank paused when the farthest door opened with a click. "I keep my promises, Frank," that familiar voice said from inside the room as several of the girls ran out into the hall and toward him.

Many of them grabbed onto each other as they ran through the hall, seeing for the first time the carnage dealt to their classmates. He motioned for them to keep running as they passed him and, after a few seconds, more than a dozen girls had run out of the school.

Vanessa came last, seemingly hesitating at the doorway before something inside prompted her to go. She looked to Frank for a second before she bolted into his arms, silently sobbing against his chest.

"Go on Van," he whispered, holding her tightly. "Joe'll be all right, I promise. I'll get him and the others out."

She pulled back, her eyes wide with fright and concern. "You come out too, Frank Hardy!" She hissed. "Callie will never forgive you if you get yourself killed!"

He kissed her gently on the forehead and silently urged her toward the exit. She glanced once at the bodies around her then fled, leaving Frank alone in the dismal hall.

The door was still open for him as he approached slowly, cautiously. He kept close to the row of lockers and stopped a few feet to the side of the door.

"I know you're out there Frank." Peter's voice sounded practically right next to Frank. It was calm, and quiet, almost reverent. "I've kept my promise, Frank. I let the girls go. Why are you playing games?"

"I'm right here, Peter," Frank said as calmly as he could muster, though his heart was racing so fast he thought it would burst. "You don't need anyone else. Let them all go and then we can talk."

"You said you didn't know who I was," the gunman sighed with relief.

_Lie. Just tell him what he wants to hear… _

"There were too many people listening," the answer came automatically.

"Come on, Peter," Frank glanced at the open doorway, watching the shadow of the man on the other side. "No one else needs to be involved. Once they're all out of the building you and I can talk privately. And, as long as I'm in here with you, no one's going to come in."

There was a moment of silence before Peter spoke again. "It's not that easy, Frankie-Boy, you know that."

The elder Hardy cringed at the name but let it go. "It is that easy, Peter. Just you and me, all right?"

There was no hesitation this time, but there was something different in his voice as Peter answered. "Okay, Frank. You and me. Come inside and they can go."

Steeling himself, he moved away from the lockers and turned to enter the room.

In truth he expected a bullet to greet him as he stepped into the doorway. Instead, a firm hand gripped his throat and pulled him the rest of the way inside.

The door closed behind him and he was slammed up against the chalk board at the front of the room. The back of his head struck hard, sending a dazzling array of stars shooting in front of his eyes, but they cleared a second later and he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

"You lied to me!"

Peter's eyes were wild and the hand on Frank's throat was choking off his air supply at the same time it was pinning him to the chalk board. Instinctively, his hands grabbed at Peter's wrist in an effort to pull him off, but the click of the safety being released from the pistol stilled his resistance.

"Get off him!" Joe roared, leaping to his feet.

"Shut up," Peter snarled, his eyes watching as Frank gasped for air. "This doesn't concern you…"

"Like hell it doesn't," Joe took a few threatening steps forward, wary of the gun pointed in Frank's face. "That's my brother you're throttling!"

"I said shut up!" Flinging his gun arm out crazily, the steel of the weapon clipped Joe across the face.

Frank watched his brother stagger into a stack of desks in front of one of the windows. Biff was right there to catch Joe before he fell. There was blood on the boy's cheek, and his eyes seemed to have trouble focussing, but he was still conscious.

Glaring daggers at the gunman, Frank grit his teeth and dug his fingers into the pressure point on Peter's wrist. The man hissed in pain but didn't relinquish his hold. The barrel of the gun was pressed viciously into Frank's temple and once again his fighting stopped.

"Everyone out," Peter hissed. When no one moved, he momentarily lifted the weapon into the air and fired a single shot over the remaining student's heads. As they flinched and ducked from the sudden action, he put the gun back to Frank's head. "I SAID EVERYONE OUT BEFORE I BLOW HIS FUCKIN' BRAINS OUT!"

Most of the boys ran.

Scrambling to their feet they made a break for the exit before the gunman had the chance to change his mind. Biff helped Joe to his feet, supporting the dazed boy with a strong arm around the waist. He glanced hesitantly at Frank.

"Get Joe outta here," Frank managed through clenched teeth.

"No," Joe groaned, trying to push himself from Biff's hold.

Frank looked to the bigger boy. "Biff…"

Tightening his hold on his friend, Biff started pulling him toward the door. "Come on Joe."

"You got ten seconds," Peter growled, drawing Frank's attention back to him.

"Frank…" Joe started fighting against Biff harder, but the captain of the wrestling team was able to keep his hold. "Frank!"

The door clicked closed behind the struggling pair.

And then there were two…


	10. Chapter Eight: Grim Reality

_**Chapter Eight: Grim Reality**_

_Friday, June 11, 11:10am_

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Joe's head seemed to clear instantly with the realization his brother was inside the room alone with a crazed killer. "FRANK!" He fought against Biff, as the older boy dragged him away from the classroom, but to no avail.

"Biff, please!" Joe pleaded as he got further away. "We can't leave him in there!"

"And we're not going to!" Biff grunted when Joe's elbow caught him in the ribs. It took a moment for the words to sink in, but Joe finally stopped struggling and Biff let him go. "He would have killed Frank right then and there if we hadn't left."

Joe's breath was coming in frantic gasps and with his friend's hand on his shoulder he started to calm down. "We need to get out of this hall."

Biff looked around then motioned to the cafeteria doors only a few yards away. "There should be something we can use for weapons inside the kitchen."

With a growl, Joe was moving.

Carefully stepping around Miss Taylor's body, Biff was the first through the double swinging doors. He came up short, causing Joe to bump into his shoulder.

"Biff what-" The words faded on his lips, and an icy fist clutched at his chest, as he saw what Biff had seen. "Oh god…"

Liz Webling sat on the floor, her back resting against the legs of a nearby table, blood staining her hands and clothes. Her arms were wrapped around a still figure cradled lovingly in her lap. Her hand absently smoothed sun-gold hair back from an unresponsive face.

Lifting her bloodshot eyes to the boys, Liz took a shuddering breath as more tears streaked through the blood on her face. "She pushed me out of the way," the girl whispered, unable to find strength for her voice.

Biff's hand covered his mouth as he turned away, tears stinging his eyes. Joe, hands shaking and tears of his own burning his vision, moved forward tentatively. He knelt in front of the two girls, his trembling hand reaching out and brushing against the pale neck.

Liz just shook her head as Joe waited to feel a pulse. "I tried, but…" She cast her eyes down her friend's body and Joe understood.

The shot had caught his brother's girlfriend directly in the chest.

Callie Shaw had died instantly.

His head lowered to his chest, and for the moment all else was forgotten. The grief... knowing what his brother would feel when he found out… Joe would do anything to spare Frank that kind of pain.

He took a shuddering breath of his own and choked back the tears.

Now was not the time.

"Liz, you need to get out of here." He didn't even recognize his own voice, thick with emotion. "The gunman's still inside the school."

She just shook her head and stared into Joe's eyes, leaving no room for debate. "I'm not leaving her here."

"She'll be okay in here, Joe." Biff's voice cracked as he wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "The gunman has what he wants. He won't come out now."

Liz stared at the two, her confusion evident on her face. "What he wants?"

Joe nodded grimly. "He's got Frank."

"Oh god," A sob caught in her throat and she clutched tighter to the body in her arms. "This can't be happening…"

"Liz?" Joe put a hand on her arm when she didn't respond. "Liz, I need to know you'll stay in here. No matter what happens or what you hear, okay?"

She nodded, unable to find her voice.

With Biff's help, Joe got to his feet. "Let's get this son of a bitch."

HBHBHB

_Friday, June 11, 11:10am_

Time came to a stand still as the two stared at each other, gauging what the other would do next.

The hand on Frank's throat loosened and suddenly Peter stepped back, letting Frank slump onto the floor as he coughed from the sudden intake of air.

Peter pulled himself up onto the teacher desk and sat there watching Frank for a minute before he reached into his pack and retrieved an unopened bottle of water. "Here," he said softly as he tossed the bottle to Frank.

Frank cracked the seal but didn't drink.

Peter chuckled and took the bottle back, drinking a third of it before handing it back. "It's not drugged." He sighed and waited until Frank was finished with the drink before he spoke. "You lied to me, Frank."

"I didn't-"

"_Frankie-Boy_," the gunman nodded at the grimace on the other boys face. "Yea, you always hated that name. Anyone ever tried to call you that and you'd snap. You didn't react when you were in the hall, so I knew you were lying to me."

There was no answer Frank could give, so he chose instead to remain silent.

It didn't matter to Peter though. His shoulders slumped and he shook his head in disbelief. "You really don't remember…"

There was such defeat in the man's voice that Frank had to remind himself that Peter was a killer. He wasn't about to let himself feel sorry for the man. "What's this all about, Peter?"

Their eyes met and Frank was again struck with a sense of familiarity. "It's about you, Frank. I came here to help you."

"Help me? I don't even know you!" Frank snarled, feeling the guilt creeping in around the edges. He pushed it back. "You think coming into my school, my life, and killing people I know, is helping me?! My god! You were going to kill my brother!"

"I- I wouldn't have-" Peter stumbled over his words under the venomous glare Frank was fixating him with. "I just… I had to see you Frank; to talk to you. But they were keeping you from me!"

"No one was keeping me from anything."

"But they were!" Peter insisted, his eyes pleading with Frank to believe him. "They were watching you, like they were watching me until I went into the hospital! And they've been watching us for six years!"

A stab of anxiety calmed Frank's protest. "Who's been watching?"

"Them!" Peter hissed. "Your teachers, your friends, your family! They're all working for Them! Come on, Frank, you've got to remember!"

Slowly, keeping one eye on the gun in the man's shaking hand, Frank rose to his feet. "Tell me what I'm supposed to remember, Peter."

Peter's free hand pressed against his temple, a small whimper of pain passing his lips before he looked up at Frank. "They took you from me, Frank. You were so afraid there! You didn't trust anyone, not even the other kids; no one but me. We were brothers, and they took you from me…"

Frank staggered as though he had been hit. The chalk board behind him was keeping him on his feet as he stared at the man. "Peter-"

Seeing the puzzled comprehension on his face, Peter got to his feet. "They brainwashed us, Frank. They made us all forget. But you can fight it! You can remember, Frank! Remember the tests and the simulations; the late nights staring up at that window; you and me, plotting our escape! Remember the promise you made me!"

His head started to pound and there was a ringing in his ear. Frank hissed at the pain and closed his eyes against the suddenly too bright lights.

_Tell him to leave it alone, or he'll be back..._

Peter's voice sounded faintly from somewhere, but he couldn't make out the words.

A nightmare from the past burned his memory. One with skull white skin and blood red hair…

_He'll come back. And not just for you… _

_He'll take Joe…_

"No!" Frank shouted, to the voice in his head and to Peter.

The pain was gone and, with a fire in his eyes, Frank snapped them open and lashed out at Peter. His hand caught the unsuspecting man in the arm, his tentative hold on his weapon loosening and sending the gun skittering across the floor.

In an instant, Peter was on the defensive, blocking each strike that Frank directed at him. It was quickly apparent that both were well schooled in martial arts, neither one gaining the advantage over the other. But Frank was unrelenting.

The anger on Peter's face showed as he let himself be pushed back toward the teacher's desk until he was pressed against it. Moving with speed belying his health, he twisted around and grabbed the shotgun from the surface of the desk. With one swift turn, he slammed the butt of the weapon into Frank's solar plexus and drove the boy to his knees.

Panting for air, Peter towered over the now gasping boy. "All you had to do was remember!" he screamed in Frank's face, his eyes burning once more with a wild intensity.

Frank could only struggle to regain his breath. He watched Peter take a couple paces back and reach, without looking, into the pack. He didn't see what was withdrawn.

Peter closed the distance between them again, swinging the shotgun around like a club. Instinctively, Frank raised his arms to protect his head, but the butt of the weapon struck the side of his head and his body gave in to the blow.

He collapsed onto his side and he felt his hands pulled together in front of his chest. There was a faint zipping sound and something thin and hard was cinched tightly around his wrists, binding them together.

Through his blurred vision he saw Peter sit back against the desk, staring down at him with a sorrowful expression.

"I'll just have to make you remember…"


	11. Chapter Nine: Disclosure

**A/N:** So I'm a few chapters behind in updating, and for that I am sorry. However, I did warn you all in the introduction that this might happen. I have had my baby! (YAY!!) A strapping lad who was born on June 14th at 6:07am. I was home on Monday, and after a few days of rest I was going to start posting again, however my wee one developed jaundice and after a butt load of blood tests he was admitted back into the hospital friday morning. We just got home today, now that the jaundice is going away. So, for the delay, I'm sorry but I'm sure you all understand my reasonings.

-Liz

* * *

_**Chapter Nine: Disclosure**_

_Friday, June 11, 11:20am_

He towered over the dark haired teen at his feet.

Images flickered past in his mind: A much younger version staring grimly ahead, determination marking his rigid stance. The same boy in tears after a particularly gruelling session of something he couldn't quite remember. Then there was the two of them whispering and laughing in fear in the dark…

His head hurt.

There was anger and there was fear.

He felt so confused.

Peter. He was Peter McKay.

It was so difficult to remember that sometimes. Not his name, but his sense of self; the part that they had taken from him. They stole years from his life! In doing so, they stole his future. They stole his happiness. They stole his whole life, and the innocence that he could never have back.

He felt tainted.

And the one at his feet?

Was just like him.

There were dozens like him.

They just didn't know it.

They must be made to know and those responsible must be punished. Somehow, they must pay!

Regrettably, all the necessary actions would not be his to execute. He had neither the strength nor the time to do it. _Spirit is willing, but flesh is weak,_ he mused and swallowed his bitterness at what fate had handed him. His only responsibility was…

Peter frowned. What was it again? What was he suppose to be doing?

The figure at his feet moaned in pain and he watched the boy grit his teeth but refuse to ask for help.

Suddenly, Peter felt grief. He knew the youth at his feet.

Frank.

Yes, this was Frank, his little brother. He promised to look after his little brother, to shield him whenever possible. That was what it was! Frank was his responsibility!

Guilt hit him. What had he done?

His head hurt...

He was supposed to come here to rescue his brother and instead he hurt him. His free hand fingered the bottle of medication in his pocket.

Should he?

He knew his tumour was affecting his behaviour. The medication was supposed to help him control his rage and outbursts.

Should he?

His hand tightened around the bottle.

NO!

It was not worth the risk! What if the medication made him forget? He was going to die anyway. And if he were to die, he would die as a whole person. He would die remembering. He would die knowing what was done to him.

And he would die knowing his little brother remembered enough to escape their control!

Peter let go of the bottle and crouched next to Frank with the intention of easing his pain. His heart sank when the other boy instinctively shied away from him. It was his doing, he knew. He tried again to reach out to Frank, but Frank moved away a second time.

He hardened his heart. Some things just needed to be done. He took hold of Frank's arm in a firm grip, holding his kid brother still as he carefully probed the lump on the side of Frank's head with his fingers.

Frank struggled and Peter tightened his hold. Ruthlessly, he forced himself to continue his probing for injuries. He swallowed his guilt and forced himself to ignore that sharp hiss of pain from Frank when he came to the swollen lump on the side of his head. There would be time enough for guilt before he breathed his last; after he got his brother away from all those watchers around him.

"The skin's not broken, and I don't think there's a concussion," he told Frank, finally releasing the arm, and at the same time felt relief coursing through him.

"Gee, thanks, I feel so much better," was Frank's rather sarcastic response.

Peter watched as Frank shifted his position to get some back support from the wall behind him. He noted how Frank wriggled his fingers to keep his blood circulating beneath the plastic cable ties around his wrists.

Peter felt yet another pang of guilt. Did he cinch them too tight? he wondered. It would be uncomfortable regardless, he admitted.

"I can take them off if you promise not to attack me again," Peter offered.

"Best you leave them on then." He had to smile at Frank's curt response, and at the dark eyes glaring at him.

"You haven't changed one bit, have you?" He got up and walked to the desk a few feet away. He reached into his pack and pulled out a sports energy bar. "Hungry?"

"No thanks." Frank watched him tear open the wrapping and take a small bite of the bar.

"Why are you doing this, Peter?" Frank asked. "I know you're sick. What could you possibly have to gain from all of this?"

Peter watched Frank flinch as he turned his own dark tormented eyes on him.

"Everything! I regain myself! Unlike you," he carefully enunciated the words. "I am whole again."

Peter leaned forward and stared Frank straight in the eye, watching carefully as… _something_ flickered across the boy's face but was quickly hidden again.

Peter shook his head and chuckled. "You cannot hide forever, Frank."

Then his tone turned reminiscent.

"Do you know what I remember most about the Compound? The hell you use to give them. God, you were so stubborn! Never would listen to them and do as you were told. You fought with them every step of the way. That's what I remember."

"Well I don't."

Frank's response was quick; too quick. Peter could hear the underlying anger wasn't as heartfelt as it could have been. And he did not miss that glimpse of fear in those eyes. How could he? They were both trained to notice things like that.

Peter felt the bitterness in him arise again. Yeah, they were forced to learn skills they did not need.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," Peter sighed. "I only started remembering about a year ago, just before the doctors discovered the tumour."

He pointed to the back of his head. "It started putting pressure on the temporal lobe, the part that regulates memory functions. It broke through whatever programming they did on us. I don't think they ever counted on something like this…"

He took another small bite of the bar and put it aside. "I refused treatments because I didn't want to forget again."

"Was it worth it? Killing yourself over it?"

Peter leaned forward, making sure Frank could see his eyes clearly, before he answered that question in a slow measured tone. It was important that Frank understood.

"Yes. I would rather die whole than to live a lie."

He could see his response hit a nerve with Frank.

Who did his little brother thinking he was kidding? Peter smirked. They were the same. That was why they were both taken. He was the older one and he remembered. Frank, clearly, did not.

But he would, Peter promised himself. He must.

"You broke your promise to me, Frank," he said sadly. "I never thought you were the type, but you broke your promise to me."

He watched Frank close his eyes. He could almost see the veins throbbing in his temples. A headache, if he was reading the body language correctly. And that was good.

_Come on little brother, you can get past the headache and remember. You have to! For me, for us, and most importantly for yourself…_

Suddenly he cringed. He could feel another attack coming. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers as he fought for control. Desperation. He felt desperation rising. Time was running out for him. And Frank… Frank must remember!

Peter was suddenly next to Frank, holding him once more by the throat and forcing his head back so they were looking at one another.

"You were supposed to keep fighting them," Peter growled, whether in pain or in desperation, even he could not tell. "You were the strong one, Frank, the one that wouldn't be broken. All of us saw it, knew that you would be able to fight them when we no longer could. And here you are six years later and where are they? They got away with it, Frank. Do you understand that? Everything they did to me… to us…"

He could see Frank's eyes staring uncomprehendingly at him. He could see that Frank thought he was crazy, that he was insane.

"Peter…."

Something snapped inside of him. Fury overtook him and he saw red at the edges of his vision. How dare anyone think him crazy! They did this to him. Damn them, damn them to hell! How dare they make his brother think he was the crazy one?

How dared they!

"Did they beat you? Torture you? Rape you? Huh? How did they break you? What fear did they exploit to get you to turn tail like a coward and bury your head in the sand for six years?!"

Bound hands reached up and grabbed hold of Peter's wrist in an effort to release the pressure on his already sore throat.

"Peter, stop!" Frank rasped out.

"Mine was my brother," he continued, not hearing Frank's protests. "He died from a cocaine overdose when I was eleven years old. Do you know what that does to a kid? Seeing your brother die right in front of you? That's why they put me in the crack house, don't you see? I was afraid of drugs and they used it against me! I didn't want to go back to that place, not even in my memories, so I was content to just let it go!"

He glared down at the teen pinned helplessly beneath him.

"Is yours your brother too? Is it? It is, isn't it?" He screamed at the boy. "You forgot for him, but will you die for him?!"

His hand had tightened around Frank's throat but, lost in his ravings, he missed that totally.

Frank, frantic for air, kicked out and somehow managed to catch him square in his guts.

Peter let go and saw Frank struggle away from him, gasping for air.

Sanity returned and guilt followed close at the heels. He scrambled to get back to help his brother.

"I'm sorry, so sorry, sorry…"

HBHBHB

Joe was crawling slowly, but determinedly, forward in the ventilation system. Biff was close behind him. They were crawling towards their classroom. The one they were forced to leave because that nutcase had a gun pointed at Frank's head. Held tight under their arms were baseball bats. Joe had decided it was too dangerous to be carrying knives since they might end up giving that nutcase more weapons at his disposal.

"You were supposed to keep fighting them," the voice echoed softly in the vent. "You were the strong one, Frank, the one that wouldn't be broken. All of us saw it, knew that you would be able to fight them when we no longer could. And here you are, six years later, and where are they? They got away with it, Frank. Do you understand that? Everything they did to me… to us…"

They were almost there. He signalled Biff to slow down and to be absolutely quiet. They had the element of surprise on their side and he would not allow them to lose it through sheer carelessness.

"Did they beat you? Torture you? Rape you? Huh? How did they break you? What fear did they exploit to get you to turn tail like a coward and bury your head in the sand for six years?!"

"Peter, stop!"

Hearing his brother's strained voice, Joe resisted the need to surge forward to see what was happening. Instead, he took a deep, steadying breath and continued to slowly inch his way forward. He was too close to lose that advantage now.

"Mine was my brother. He died from a cocaine overdose when I was eleven years old. Do you know what that does to a kid? Seeing your brother die right in front of you? That's why they put me in the crack house, don't you see? I was afraid of drugs and they used it against me! I didn't want to go back to that place, not even in my memories, so I was content to just let it go!"

An inch and then another. He was almost there now.

"Is yours your brother too? Is it? It is, isn't it? You forgot for him, but will you die for him?!"

A few more inches and he would be able to see what was happening below. Then he found himself peeking down at the scene below him.

What he saw angered him. That nutcase was hurting Frank!

He started desperately to work at the grills below him as quickly and quietly as he could. Don't lose the advantage now, don't lose the advantage now, he kept chanting to himself. Then Biff was beside him and between the two of them, they lifted the grilling.

Then with a quick nod to Biff, he dropped himself into the room.

HBHBHB

Peter had no time to think, he just reacted.

The softest of creaking sounds alerted him to something behind him. He turned just in time to see a body dropping down on him from above.

He snarled as he executed a swift roll to his left and watched with grim satisfaction when he heard that blond headed youth groan in pain as he landed flat on the hard floor. His peripheral vision caught the movement of another boy coming at him also from the ventilation shaft.

Peter calmly moved aside and towards the teen on the ground, easily dodging the first blow from the second lad. He gave the blond on the ground a swift kick to the head before ripping the baseball bat still clutched tightly in those hands. He ignored the cry of protest and anger from Frank. With that, he parried the second incoming blow

The makeshift weapons collided but Peter, even weakened by cancer as he was, was still the more skilled fighter. He used the larger boy's own momentum against him when a third swing came his way, side-stepping again, causing Biff to stagger to the side.

In the background, he could hear Frank's voice shouting for him to stop, but he did not heed the cries. Peter's face twisted into one of rage and he swung the bat at his opponents exposed back. The crack of the wooden bat, as it splintered across the boy's back, was almost as sickening as the sound that escaped Biff's lips. The howl of pain was inhuman sounding as the brawler collapsed to the ground.

Barely breathing hard, Peter pulled the bat away from Biff's hand and turned his attention to Joe who was struggling to get to his feet.

With a quick sweep of his leg, Peter pulled Joe down onto his back again. He tossed the broken pieces of his bat aside as placed his foot over the prone boy's throat and started pressing down.

"Peter!"

His head snapped up at the sound of the hoarse voice and stared at the one he had momentarily forgotten about. Eyes met for an instant before there was a crack followed by a burning impact to his shoulder that sent him stumbling back.

Frank stood next to the desk, his bound hands holding Peter's discarded pistol steady between his palms. "Stay away from him," Frank hissed menacingly.

Peter chuckled grimly. "You were always a bad shot, Frank."

"I hit where I aim," was the snarled answer. "But I'm not like you, Peter. I'm not a killer."

"That's where you're wrong, Frankie-Boy. You're exactly like me; they trained you to be just like me. And I'll prove it to you,"

Still wielding the bat, Peter turned his eyes to the Hardy still lying on the floor. He took a single step before several more cracks filled the air and a splatter of red exploded in several spots on Peter's chest.

Peter lifted his eyes disbelievingly to Frank.

Then he saw the man standing in the doorway.

Dark helmet, balaclava, bullet proof vest…

Then he saw no more.


	12. Chapter Ten: Graduation Day

_**Chapter 10: Graduation Day**_

_Friday, June 11, 10:40pm_

Night had fallen, closing the curtain on the darkest day in the small city's history.

The streets were unnervingly quiet and Fenton passed only a few emergency vehicles on his way home from the police station. Chief Collig had finally expelled him from the building, telling him to go home, to be with his sons. He knew his old friend was right. Now, more than ever, his family needed him to be there. Yet he loathed leaving without more information.

He needed to know why something like this would happen in their quiet town.

His sedan pulled into the driveway of the house on the corner of High and Elm Streets. The house was almost completely dark, except for the porch light and the light illuminating the living room. Killing the engine, he grabbed his suit coat from the passenger seat and made his way up the walk to the front door.

It was as quiet inside as it was outside. He called softly to his family and received an answer from inside the living room.

Laura was sitting on the sofa with one arm draped over a sleeping Joe's chest. Her other hand soothingly stroked his hair away from his pale face, which was nestled on her lap. It was a position the father hadn't seen in many years, not since the days when his youngest was prone to horrific nightmares.

His eyes fell onto the stitches on the boy's cheek and the bruise adorning the side of his neck. Fenton had seen Joe that afternoon, immediately after the stand off at the high school. The bruising had yet to show itself and the sight of it was more disturbing than he had imagined.

The gunman had done that. Someone who had been capable of killing innocent kids, for no apparent reason other than it suited him at the time.

Laura noticed where her husband's gaze had fallen. "Frank's is worse," she whispered, not wanting to wake her son.

"Where is he?" Fenton asked, his voice as equally quiet.

"Upstairs," was her answer. "Gertrude is sitting with him."

He walked into the room and sat on the loveseat. "How're they doing?"

She took a shuddering breath and it was then he noticed just how red and swollen his wife's eyes were. She'd obviously been crying. "Frank? Not so good, but that's to be expected. He hasn't said a word since we got home. Just went up to his room and has yet to leave it. Joe's a little better, but I think he's just trying to be strong for his brother."

Feeling his own throat constricting with emotion, he just nodded. They'd gone through this before, the previous year when Joe had lost Iola. And now the cruel fates had seen fit to put their elder son through the same thing.

Callie had been Frank's first girlfriend, his first love. Even though they hadn't dated anyone else since they started high school, Fenton had seen them sharing a future together. Perhaps they would have married, sometime after college; raised a family… and now she was gone.

"I'm worried," Laura admitted after a few moments of silence had lingered between them. "How are they supposed to get through something like this?"

"They're strong boys, Laur," He assured her.

"But it's not just Callie," she told him as a tear escaped her control. "Jerry was killed and Biff could be paralyzed for the rest of his life. They're just so close with all their friends…" She shook her head, unable to say any more.

Fenton rose from his seat and crouched beside his wife, wiping the tears from her face. "They have us, Gertrude, each other, and their friends. It'll be hard, some days harder than the rest, but they will get past this." He leaned in and kissed her softly before standing. "I'm going to look in on Frank. Call me if you need me?"

A weak smile warmed her lips and she nodded. "I will."

Despite the lack of lights, he was able to navigate up the stairs and to Frank's room with ease. There was no light coming from the crack beneath the door and he hesitated a moment before knocking softly.

Almost immediately the door opened and he was greeted by his older sister. "I thought I heard you come in, Fenton."

His already aching heart anguished even more as he looked inside the darkened room. The curtains were open, the pale light from the moon casting a faint glow over his son's face as Frank sat at his desk and stared unseeing out the window.

Even in the low light, the black imprint of someone's hand was prominent on the boy's throat. Laura had been right: it was worse than Joe's. That bruise had been only on one side of the neck and there was just one. This was the result of multiple assaults by a killer determined to see Frank suffocate.

Fenton felt ill.

Gertrude placed a hand on her brother's shoulder and wordlessly departed the room, leaving father and son alone.

Frank didn't acknowledge him as he closed the door behind him and Fenton wondered if Frank even knew he was there. He walked the short distance to the desk and positioned himself on the edge of its surface. He watched his boy – the mirror image of himself at that age – and nearly wept at the look of despair on his face.

"Frank," he began quietly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

When there was no answer, Fenton continued. "Chief Collig told me what you did today."

"Don't."

The voice he heard was not the one he had been expecting. It was harder than he had anticipated, cold and hollow. So unlike the Frank he knew. "Don't?"

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Frank turned his face away from the window and looked up at his father. The despair was gone, replaced by something familiar though he never thought he would see it shining in the dark eyes of his eldest son.

Hatred.

"Don't sit there," the teen snarled venomously, "and make me out to be some hero. I'm no hero."

"Really," Fenton scolded gently. "That's not how I've heard it told." He leaned forward, putting a hand on Frank's shoulder. "You gave yourself over to an armed and dangerous man, Frank, so he would release your brother and the others. I'd say that was pretty heroic."

With a derisive snort Frank turned back to the moonlit window. "What was I supposed to do, let the son of a bitch kill someone else?"

"Frank-"

"No Dad," he shook his head, his eyes blazing fiercely in the pale light. "People were dying; my teachers and friends, not faceless strangers. But if I had been there this morning none of it would have happened."

That statement surprised the father. He squeezed the boy's shoulder until Frank looked at him. "This is not your fault, Frank! This man may have fixated on you, for one reason or another, but you are not responsible for his actions! He made the choice; he pulled the trigger, not you! "

"That doesn't make them any less dead, does it?"

Fenton's mouth opened, but no sound passed his lips as he had no words to say.

A scathing sneer distorted the face, making the boy before Fenton unrecognizable, just for a second before Frank turned away again. "Just go."

"Frank, please-"

"I said, get out."

The callousness in his son's voice left Fenton feeling cold. He knew Frank was hurting, but this felt different somehow. He didn't like what he was hearing.

Reluctantly, and with one last gentle squeeze to the boy's shoulder, Fenton got up from the edge of the desk and left the room.

HBHBHB

_Saturday, June 12, 1:35am_

_Tears burned the rims of his eyes yet, somehow, he managed to keep them in check as he walk across the dormitory to his cot. He felt the others' eyes on him as he moved, but he dared not return their gazes lest his control waver and the tears fall. It wasn't until he sat on the mattress, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, that he felt that control falter and a single tear escaped down his grimy cheek._

_The cot squeaked and shifted beneath the weight of another. He didn't need to look up to know who was now sitting beside him; whose arm it was that rested comfortingly around his trembling shoulders._

_Sixteen year old Peter McKay sighed and spoke in a whisper, "You okay, Frank?"_

_The last vestiges of composure crumbled against the compassion he heard in the other boy's voice. "I can't do it anymore, Peter," he said quietly between hushed sobs._

"_Hey, don't quit on me now!" Peter reached for a semi-clean towel hanging over the foot of the cot and handed it to Frank. "You got me wanting to fight these bastards again with all that talk about how your dad was going to bust us out of here. You and me, giving them hell, remember?"_

"_Give them hell…" Frank absently took the towel and wiped at the tears on his face. "Except they give it right back and are much better at it."_

"_You're pretty good at it yourself," Peter gave Frank a sly smile and ruffled his hair. "Definitely better at it than I am. I've lost my touch, but I am more than happy to pass the torch to you, little brother."_

_Frank smiled weakly, but the tears were beginning to dry up already. "Maybe."_

_Peter leaned back on an elbow and stared up at the window overheard. "Just keep fighting them, Frank. Don't give them what they want, or you'll be trapped here like the rest of us. Promise me that. Promise me, no matter what, you won't let them win Frank…_

"…Frank?"

Startled, Frank jerked slightly and looked around.

It took a moment for him to adjust, the memory having been so vivid he had been lost inside it.

A cloud cover had moved in and now obscured the moon, blanketing his room in an oppressive blackness. He couldn't remember moving from the chair to his bed, but at some point he must have. He now sat on the edge of the mattress, his hands clenched in fists so tight his knuckles were white and his fingernails had cut into the flesh of his palms.

The memory began to fade as the bed shifted beside him and he finally became aware of his brother sitting beside him. Joe's fingers gently pried his hands open, exposing them to the faint light that was filtering through the bathroom from Joe's room. "You're bleeding."

"I'm fine," he answered, pulling his hand away.

Joe sighed and went into the bathroom. Frank could hear the water running in the sink briefly before Joe came back with a moist towel and some bandages. Without a word, the youngest Hardy began dabbing at the blood that was welling from the cuts.

"Can't sleep?" he asked during his ministrations.

The older boy shook his head, watching through the inky darkness as his brother cleaned and bandaged first his right and then left hand. It was all done in utter silence, but there had never been any need for words between the two brothers.

The silence lingered, each lost in their own waking nightmare. After a moment, he heard Joe clear his throat and, when he spoke, his voice was heavy with emotion. "It really happened, didn't it?"

He hated hearing his brother cry, never wanted to see him in pain, but tonight it was different.

He hated Joe at that moment, despised him because he was capable of crying. He wanted to be able to reach out and hold his distraught brother, to comfort him and share in his grief.

But, for Frank, there was no grief, no sorrow, no despair. There was only the black, all encompassing hate for the person responsible.

Peter pulled the trigger.

Peter had killed.

And Frank, in turn, had wanted to kill Peter.

But Peter wasn't the one responsible...


	13. Chapter Eleven: Revelations

_**Chapter Eleven: Revelations**_

_Monday, June 14, 9:25am_

Chief Collig was normally a very patient man. He had to be, with his line of work. Nearly thirty years of working his way through the ranks of various police forces had taught him more than enough about waiting. Yet this morning he found himself pacing the length of his office like a caged animal.

The negotiator had called the precinct the night before, leaving a message for the Chief that he was going to be coming back to Bayport with a Detective from New York. Apparently, they had things to discuss pertaining to the events of the previous Friday morning. Agent Younger had also made a request for Fenton Hardy to be present as well.

That alone had the seasoned policeman worried. Although skilled as an investigator, and known to assist law enforcement agencies, Fenton was still a civilian. That he was asked to join them was unusual, to say the least.

Although, it did save Collig from having to call his old friend.

The ballistics report had come across his desk just a few minutes ago, and the results were not what Ezra had wanted to read.

The intercom on his desk buzzed briefly before his assistant's voice crackled over the speaker. "The negotiator and detective are here, sir."

Ezra walked over to his desk and pressed a button on the intercom. "Have them wait for me in interview room two."

"Yes, Sir."

"Is Fenton here yet?"

"Not yet, sir."

He had hoped to talk privately with Fenton before the meeting with the negotiator, but perhaps it was better this way. Agent Younger would probably want to hear the results as well, especially since his being here had to do with Friday's events. "Have him join us as soon as he arrives."

"Yes sir."

The intercom went silent and Ezra was left alone with his thoughts. This meeting was not going to be an easy one, especially for his friend.

He gathered up the file that was spread across his desk and left his office a minute later. His assistant was just excusing herself from the interview room as he approached. "Nothing is to interrupt us."

The young officer nodded. "Yes sir."

Inside the room, a stark space with only a single table and several chairs, Sean Younger and another man stood together talking quietly. There was a resemblance between the two, the same dark hair and dark green eyes, though the stranger stood several inches taller than the negotiator.

"Agent Younger," the chief greeted, placing the file he carried on the table.

Sean extended a hand to the older man and shook it cordially. "Good morning Chief Collig." He motioned to his companion. "This is Detective Brian Younger with the NYPD, 6th Precinct."

The two shook hands and Collig arched an eyebrow curiously. "Younger?"

Brian smiled weakly. "My brother," he explained. "I appreciate you seeing us this morning, Sir."

"Of course," Collig motioned for them to sit and noticed as the Detective limped slightly as he moved to comply. "Your brother said he has some answers about what happened."

"Yes," Sean confirmed, placing a hand on a file of papers he had brought along with him. "It seems, however, that what happened at the school deals with a missing person's case my brother worked on several years ago."

"McKay's brother?" Collig speculated.

The two Youngers glanced at each other. "I think it would be best to wait for Mr Hardy," Sean said after a moment. "I'd rather not have to explain this more than once."

The trio only had to wait a few minutes, filling the time with casual conversation, when there was a light knocking at the door before it opened. A weary looking Fenton Hardy entered the interview room and closed the door behind him.

"Sorry I'm late, Ezra."

"Only a minute or two," the Chief assured his friend. He watched the private investigator walk the short distance to the table and occupy the chair next to him. He motioned to the pair who sat across from them. "This is Agent Sean Younger, the negotiator with NYSPA, and-"

"Brian?" A small smile tugged at Fenton's mouth as he reached across the table to shake the man's hand.

Detective Younger returned the smile. "It's been a long time, Mr Hardy."

"It's Fenton, remember?"

"Is there anyone from the NYPD you don't know, Fenton?" Ezra asked.

"I met Brian after I left the PD," Fenton explained. "He was the Detective in charge of Frank's missing person's case."

Collig nodded, recalling probably one of the darkest times for the Hardy family.

"Mr Hardy," Sean began as he opened the file folder before him, "That is one of the reasons we asked you to join us this morning."

"I don't understand," Fenton turned his attention to the negotiator.

Almost at once, the atmosphere in the room lost its casualness and a heavy tension fell. Sean removed some papers from the file and handed a few to each of the other men. "These are transcripts of what went on inside that classroom."

Fenton started scanning the document. "How did you get these?"

"The box," Ezra had forgotten. "The communications box that we inserted into the room, hoping to negotiate with McKay, contained a hidden microphone."

"It also had a camera," Sean added. "However we never had a chance to activate it."

"Sean came to see me yesterday," Brian said, "After he heard the recordings. Fenton-"

The father paled as he read. "Oh god…"

"McKay was sick; dying," Ezra felt ill as he continued reading. "He was delusional. This isn't possible!"

"I'm afraid it is," Brian shook his head. "There were dozens of kids missing the same time as Frank. McKay was one of them. I checked through my case files from back then. It's him."

"But this nonsense about a Compound," Ezra scoffed. "Psychological conditioning? It sounds like something out of a bad episode of the X-Files!"

"I would have agreed with you," Sean acknowledged grimly, "Except for details we found in Frank's missing person's file. Six years ago, Frank was the only one of those missing kids to have any memory of what happened. A dormitory, a weapon's test, something called Project Christmas -"

"The police in Columbus went to McKay's room at the Hospice," Brian told them. "They found diaries that contained detailed descriptions of this Compound, as wells as tests and training the kids underwent – including a weapon's assembly test which was exactly as described by Frank six years ago."

"They also gave physical descriptions and complete backgrounds on each of the missing kids," Sean added grimly. "As well as information he couldn't possibly know unless he personally knew each of them."

"Before he passed away, our father dug up information on Project Christmas," Brian went on. "It was a Cold War CIA program that was dissolved in the mid seventies. McKay's journals are nearly exact to what was done to the subjects of the CIA program."

"So he got the information off the internet," Ezra tried to explain it away. "It just added to his fantasy."

Brian shook his head. "The consistencies between McKay's journals, Frank's statement, and the information my father got from the CIA, would be too much of a coincidence."

Sean glanced at the private detective who had yet to look up from the papers. "McKay saw your son as a surrogate brother and believed everyone was working to keep the two of them apart. His doctors, his mother, you... Peter's room was filled with stuff about Frank. He'd been watching your family for months, waiting for his chance."

"Oh my god," Fenton let the papers fall from his trembling hands.

"He knew everything about Frank," the agent continued. "He came to Bayport looking for his 'brother' and was prepared to take Frank with him by whatever means necessary. When he couldn't find him in class, McKay thought he was too late."

"He told us he didn't know why McKay wanted him," Chief Collig muttered in disbelief. "Frank has withheld information from us in the past, but never for something like this. Why wouldn't he tell us?"

"He doesn't remember," Fenton got up from his chair and started pacing anxiously. "He never has."

"McKay confessed to him, Fenton," Ezra reminded the father.

"Would you have believed him?" the father growled in his son's defence, scowling at the Chief. "This man – a sick and dying man – comes into your school, murders your friends, and tells you he's there to 'save' you from… what? Imaginary bad guys from a childhood nightmare that you don't remember? I'm hearing the facts – things that Frank will never know, if I have my way – and I'm having a hard time believing it! "

"He remembers some of it," Brian said gently. "He remembered McKay. He gave Sean his name just from looking at a photo."

"So, McKay was right then?" Fenton seethed. "You're telling me that my son – my brilliant, amazing son – is nothing more than what those bastards programmed him to be?! I can't accept that! I won't!"

"Mr Hardy," Sean began, only to be interrupted by the investigator.

"No," Fenton shook his head as he worked to control his visibly rising anger. "I can't believe any of this. McKay was sick, delusional. He may have been one of the missing kids, but I will not believe that any of what he claims was done to my son."

"Fenton," the Chief said hesitantly, "you can't deny-"

"I have to." There was quiet desperation in the father's voice when he spoke. He stopped his pacing and rested his hands on the back of his vacated chair. "If I don't, then I have to accept that Frank is just like Peter McKay; someone capable of taking another life. A killer. No… that is something I just cannot – and will not – believe. Not my son."

"You're right," Ezra stood from his chair and placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Frank is nothing like Peter McKay. Not in a million years."

The appreciation, and relief, felt at that single statement was prominent on Fenton's face. He smiled weakly then turned to the Youngers. "Was there anything else?"

Sean shook his head. "We just thought you had the right to know, Mr Hardy."

Fenton shook each of their hand in turn. "It was nice seeing you again, Brian. Come by the house before your leave town, if you get the chance. I know Frank and Laura would be sorry if they missed you."

Detective Younger nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

The three watched in silence as Fenton left the room, the door automatically closing slowly behind him. The quiet lingered a moment even after he was gone before Collig reached for the folder he had brought in with him.

"It's your investigation," he said as he tossed the file to Sean. "I want this buried."

"What is it?" the negotiator asked as he flipped it open.

"The ballistics and autopsy report on Peter McKay." Ezra slumped back into his chair. "He was shot five times. Once in the shoulder-"

"By Frank," Sean said with a nod.

"– and four times in the chest."

Chief Collig let that information sink in.

"SWAT officer fired three shots," Brian leaned back in his chair with a moan.

"The fourth bullet came from the gun Frank Hardy fired," Sean read from the report. He looked up from the papers and regarded the police chief across from him. "McKay was going after his brother. It still doesn't mean-"

"Autopsy report says otherwise."

The three men glanced at each other and, without a second thought, Sean Younger closed the file before him.

"Consider is buried."


	14. Chapter Twelve: Repercussions

_**Chapter Twelve: Repercussions**_

_Thursday, June 17, 1:00pm_

The dark circles beneath the robust woman's eyes were evident even at a distance. She stood next to a coffee machine, a paper cup held delicately between her palms, as she stared off into the vacant space around her. From the looks of the nurses at the nearby station, it was obvious she hadn't moved in some time.

Joe watched her for a moment himself, trying to gauge her mood before he approached her. "Mrs H?"

Natalie Hooper blinked a few times as her eyes adjusted to the boy a few feet away from her. She offered him a small smile. "Joe! What a pleasant surprise!"

He returned the grin. "I would have been by sooner, but the Docs said he hasn't been up for visitors."

The faint smile faltered as Mrs Hooper shook her head, finally stepping away from the vending machine. "They had him on a lot of pain medication the first few days and then they've been running test after test after test, wanting to determine the extent of the damage."

"How is he?" Joe asked gently as they walked down the length of the hall.

"Come in and see him, Joe," the woman stopped outside a closed door and turned to regard the teen. "He could really use his friends right now."

"And you're sure that includes me?"

She seemed surprised at his question but, seeing the faint reflection of guilt in his usually bright eyes, she understood his query. She motioned to a set of chairs not far from the door. "Sit with me a moment, won't you Joe?"

Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, he complied with his friend's mother and sat beside her in the hard plastic chair. "Mrs H-"

Natalie put a gentle hand on his arm, interrupting him before he could say any more. "Biff has told his father and me what happened, more than what the papers and police have told us."

Joe cringed a little. "I am so sorry, Mrs H! I should have insisted he get out-"

"And do you think he would have listened any more than you did?" Mrs Hooper moved her hand from his arm to his back, rubbing it soothingly as only a mother could. "I know what your brother did for my son, Joe; what he did for you and all the hostages. Frank went into a volatile situation to save his friends, and I have come to expect no less from my Biff. I am very proud of him!

"Am I angry that he got hurt? Of course, but you had nothing to do with that. The blame lies solely with one man, and that's the monster that saw it necessary to wage war on a high school. But then, he's already gotten what he deserved, hasn't he?"

"You may feel that way," Joe said, "But what about Biff? I was the one who wanted to go back in, and I only got a few stitches. He's the one who's paralysed! I wouldn't blame him if he didn't want to see me again!"

The woman shook her head and grabbed hold of his chin, turning his face so he was looking her directly in the eyes. "Now you listen to me, Joseph Hardy. You always have been, and always will be, the best friend Biff has ever had. The day that you are not a welcomed part of this family is the day hell freezes over."

The blood rushed to his cheeks and there was no stopping the bashful smile that crept onto his lips. "Thank you, Mrs H."

"Now, enough of this nonsense," she scolded, rising from the chair. "Biff has been asking when you were going to come see him since they reduced his pain meds. If he finds out you're sitting here talking with me instead of inside keeping him company he'll take a pound of flesh from you the first chance he gets."

The grin on his face was now a permanent feature. Joe nodded and followed her to the door across the hall. "You're a good woman, Mrs H, has anyone ever told you that?"

"You forgot devastatingly beautiful," she said teasingly.

"Never! You're just lucky you're I'm afraid of Mr H," Joe replied with a wink, "and Vanessa!"

"Oh, you shameless flirt!" Mrs Hooper chuckled and opened the door to her son's hospital room. "Biff, you have a visitor."

"Dude, it's about time!" Biff exclaimed when he saw who was standing behind his mother. "I'm going stir crazy in here!"

"I'll give you boys some time alone," Mrs H said as Joe entered the room. "Just buzz the nurse's station if you need me, they'll know where to find me."

"Thanks Mom."

"Thank you, Mrs H." There was more to the simple phrase, and Mrs Hooper smiled at Joe warmly. She nodded, letting him know she knew what he was talking about, before exiting the room and closing the door behind her again.

"So what took you so long, man?" Biff demanded the moment they were alone.

With a light laugh, Joe pulled a chair closer to the bed as Biff elevated the bed a little with the controls. "Believe me, I would have been here sooner if they had let me."

Biff laughed with him. "I probably wouldn't have noticed anyway. The drugs they had me on kept me in a pretty happy place. I hardly remember the first few days I was here."

"That's what your Mom said." The concern for his friend showed in his expression. "There was a lot of pain?"

"In the back," the other boy nodded grimly. "I could barely see straight, it hurt that bad. But the legs, not so much you know."

The guilt began niggling at Joe again, but Biff was as observant as his mother. "Joe, it wasn't your fault. And besides, it's not that bad."

"Not that bad?"

Biff smirked at the incredulous look on Joe's face. "Okay, being paralysed seriously sucks, but it's not permanent. Maybe, anyway."

"Not permanent?" Joe exclaimed, a smile splitting his face again. "That's fantastic, Biff!"

"I said maybe," the blonde chuckled at Joe's enthusiasm.

"Even so…"Joe leaned forward in the chair. "So tell me already!"

"Well, you know how the spinal cord isn't really a single cord, but a bunch of nerves strung together?"

"I vaguely remember something like that being said in Biology."

"Okay, so when that douche-bag broke my back it didn't completely sever the spinal cord. Just damaged like a million nerves."

"And that's a good thing?"

"Normally, no," Biff conceded. He motioned to a couple of pamphlets on the bedside table and Joe picked them up, browsing them as Biff summarized what they said. "But, there's a teaching hospital in Sydney, Australia, where this Doctor is starting human trials with a new antibody treatment. Apparently, his team's been able to isolate the enzyme that prevents the human body from repairing damaged nerves. I guess this antibody stops the production of this enzyme and, the theory is, with new nerve growth damage like mine could possibly repair itself."

"Wow," Joe breathed in amazement.

"He's had phenomenal success with his test animals and the Australian government approved human trials earlier this year. The specialist here recommended the program to my parents, hence all the tests I've undergone this week. They needed a butt-load of information to send to this Doctor. Now, we just wait and see."

"That's incredible," Joe put the pamphlets back on the table. "And definitely the piece of good news everyone needs right now."

"My dad said the same thing. The only down side is that it would mean a year living down under."

A small frown creased Joe's forehead. "A year?"

"Or more," Biff added, a frown of his own on his face. "But if it means I'd be able to walk again-"

"Of course!" Joe quickly tried to cover his disappointment. "It's just a long time, is all. What about school?"

"I can finish my senior year online, Mom already checked with the administration at Bayport High." Biff shrugged, his frown deepening. "Apparently a lot of parents are considering it. Can't say as I blame them though…"

The mood in the room darkened. "Yea," Joe agreed quietly. "I've been thinking it too, actually."

"Seriously?"

"It's not our school anymore," he explained with a sigh. "How are we suppose to go through that hallway and not see…?"

Biff nodded grimly. "Yea."

The silence was thick around the two boys, but it was Biff who was able to clear his throat a moment later to speak again. "When are the funerals?"

Joe coughed a few times before he found his voice. "There's been a couple already; Mrs Sims and Mr Andersons. There's a big memorial tomorrow night."

Tears burned at Biff's eyes and he wiped them away with the heel of his palm. "When're Jerry and Callie's?"

"Callie's is tomorrow, Jerry's on Saturday."

"I wish I could be there," Biff shook his head mournfully, "But I won't be ready for a wheelchair for a while still."

"Everyone knows you'd be there if you could," Joe assured him. "We all want you to take care of yourself."

A faint smile crossed the other boy's lips. "I think my mother's got a handle on that. She's treating me like I'm two years old," the boy grumbled good-naturedly.

"A mother's prerogative," Joe responded sagely. "You're her baby boy and you're lying in a hospital bed. It's her duty to mollycoddle you while you're recuperating."

Biff groaned and slouched back into his pillows. "How do you put up with it, man?"

"Years of practice," Joe said with a chuckle. The two shared a light laugh, easing some of the tension that had hung in the room. Joe sighed and smiled at Biff. "So… Australia, huh?"


	15. Chapter Thirteen: Remember

_**Chapter Thirteen: Remember…**_

_Friday, June 18, 6:00pm_

"Did the rest help, Joe?"

Adjusting his sweater as he entered the living room, Joe nodded in response to his mother's question. "The sound of the rain put me to sleep."

Laura smiled at her youngest son from her spot on the sofa, clicking the television off with the remote as he sat beside her. "There's some of Gertrude's stew simmering on the stove, if you're hungry."

He shook his head and stared at the black screen of the TV. "When do we need to leave?"

"In about an hour," she answered, placing her hand on his back and rubbing it gently. "Sam and Ethel are coming over; we thought it would be nice to go over to the school together."

"That's nice," he responded absently. "Where're Dad and Frank?"

"Your father's in his office, and Frank," she sighed as she thought of her eldest son. "I think he's still out on the deck."

That got the boy's attention and he glanced toward the kitchen. "He's been out there since we got home from the service?"

Laura followed his gaze, picturing Frank as he had been the last time she had checked on him. Sitting rigidly on one of the deck chairs, staring out into the yard at nothing in particular, his handsome face an emotionless mask. "I think," she said after a moment's thought, "the funeral was hard for him. He's grieving."

"It was hard for everyone," Joe shook his head again and rose from the sofa. "He's not grieving, he's hiding."

His mother's hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist, halting him as he went to walk away. "Joe…"

"I've been where he is, Mom," he said sadly, gently prying her hand away from his arm. "He helped me when I needed it, and now I can help him."

The walk from the living room, through the kitchen, and onto the back deck took only a few seconds. Yet during that time Joe's heart leapt rapidly against his chest. Despite reassuring his mother, he was at a loss of what he was going to say to his brother.

Frank had secluded himself from his family and friends for the past week. He refused visitors, phone calls, and barely ate or slept any more. Now he looked pale and gaunt, the bags beneath his eyes accentuating the pain that haunted those once vibrant eyes.

Joe missed him.

Remembering what he had been like when Iola died, Joe knew the pit of despair that had opened and threatened to consume him. Frank had been there for him, talked Joe back from the darkest period of his life. But there was more to it this time, more than the grief of losing someone so dear, and Joe feared there was no bringing his brother back.

"Hey," Joe said casually as stepped out onto the deck.

The dark haired teen sat in the lounge chair, one fist clutched around several sheets of paper, and stared at the water drizzling from the awning. He glanced briefly at Joe when the boy sat in the chair next to him, but said nothing.

Joe swallowed his uncertainty and nodded toward the papers. "Is that the eulogy Principal Woods asked you to write?"

"Yup," was the indifferent answer.

"May I read it?"

Frank stood up from the chair and tossed the loose papers into his brother's lap. "Knock yourself out."

Joe watched him, his heart aching, as Frank walked over to the railing of the deck and leaned against one of the posts. Slowly, Joe picked up the papers.

For a few moments, the only sound in the yard came from the steady fall of rain on the roof above the boys.

When he finished, there were tears burning at the corner of Joe's eyes and he rose to stand next to Frank. "Frank, this is… beautiful."

Frank tore the papers from Joe's hands and crumpled them into a ball before tossing it into a nearby puddle. "It's bullshit."

Taken aback by Frank's response, Joe stared at his brother in confusion. "Bullshit? So you didn't mean a word of it? I don't believe that."

"Believe what you want," the older boy snarled. "I don't care."

"You don't care?"

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say?" Dark, dispassionate eyes glowered at Joe. "If you are, I can finish this conversation on my own."

"Oh, get over yourself already!" Joe snapped, his anger at his brother's attitude finally overwhelming his compassion. "I get it, you're trying to deal, but you're being a real ass! To Mom and Dad, our friends, to everyone around you when all we want is to help you!"

"Well, who asked you to?!" Frank snarled back. "I can deal with this on my own!"

"Right, like you've been doing such a bang up job of it so far." Joe put a hand on Frank's arm, only to have it shrugged off. "Frank, no one can do this alone; Least of all you."

"What's that suppose to mean?"

"You keep things bottled up inside," Joe explained, trying to keep his temper from boiling over. "You always have. But you do that with something like this and you're going to go insane. I know."

"You know nothing."

Joe gaped at him. "Nothing? I know a hell of a lot more than you think, brother dear. Or have you forgotten Iola?"

"It's not the same."

"Why? Because Iola wasn't killed by some coward from my forgotten past? Because she wasn't killed by someone I knew? "

Frank whirled on Joe, grabbing him by the collar of his sweater, and slammed the younger boy against the post he had leaned against only a moment before. "Shut up!"

Joe grit his teeth against the shock at seeing the rage burning beneath the surface of Frank's eyes. He had never seen his brother so riled up before, especially not at him. Still, he was not backing down now; not now that he knew why Frank had been acting as he had the past week.

"Peter knew you, Frank! He came looking for you and Callie died. Jerry died. People we knew died! But it wasn't your fault!"

The few times the brother's had ever come to blows, Joe only came out relatively unscathed because of Frank's control. But seeing the fist pull back now he knew there would be no holding back. He braced himself as much as he could for the blow.

"Frank!"

Laura's shriek of astonishment stopped time.

Joe glanced over at his parents who stood framed in the kitchen doorway, looks of utter surprise on their faces.

Frank's fist hovered at his shoulder and the shock at what he'd been about to do was crushing as the anger faded. His arm lowered and the grip on his brother's sweater let go. Tears sprung to his eyes as he stepped away from Joe.

Seeing Frank about to melt down, Joe reached for him but his brother jerked away from him. If Joe couldn't physically comfort him, he'd try something else. His voice filled with every ounce of love and compassion he felt and he spoke gently, "It wasn't your fault, Frank."

The older boy looked horrified and spun away, rushing past both his parents and back into the house.

Laura was right behind him and Fenton watched as Joe stepped off the deck and retrieved the sopping wet ball of paper from the puddle. "What just happened?" the father asked when Joe came back.

"Something good, I hope," Joe said sadly, shaking his head as he heard the roar of a motorcycle coming to life from the garage. All was quiet again a moment later as the sound of the motorcycle disappeared into the distance.

Putting an arm around his son's shoulders, Fenton guided him back into the house. Joe placed the paper on the table and began the careful task of salvaging the words written.

HBHBHB

_Friday, June 18, 8:30pm_

The front steps of Bayport High School were covered in thousands of flowers. The light from more than a hundred candles once illuminated the area, but the steady fall of rain had extinguished most of them in the last few hours. Arranged on easels, and placed within the growing memorial, stood pictures of those who had fallen only a week ago.

The rain was keeping no one away and it seemed as if the entire population of Bayport was trying to find a place in front of the building. Across the crowded street, on the roof of the junior high school, dozens of news cameras were set up beneath protective plastic sheets.

The world was watching.

Principal Woods stood tall behind the podium, his deep green eyes looking at the gathered congregation with shared grief. He stood before the throng of students, teachers, and mourners not as a school official but as one of them. A human being touched by the recent tragedy at Bayport High School.

He cleared his throat hesitantly, smoothing out the wrinkled papers on the podium before him. Slowly, he began to speak.

"The words I'm about to speak are not my own," he said haltingly, trying to control the hitch in his voice. "They were written by a graduating student and they deserve to be heard more than anything I could say." Looking down at the rain splattered pages, he read:

"I would be lying if I said I understood. I don't. I could never understand the evil that man is capable of. There is no explaining why bad things happen to good people.

"And bad is what happened June 11.

"Friday's tragedy has spread shock waves through families, and across the country, as so many lives were lost. They vanished in the blink of an eye; Young, much too young to be gone already. Sons and daughters, friends and teachers. Making sense out of death is difficult, but this? How do you make sense out of senseless?

"A man once said, '_We cannot banish dangers, but we can banish fears. We must not demean life by standing in awe of death._'

"Now is not the time for remembering the evil that was done in our school. We must forge ahead, taking with us the memories of those no longer walking the path of life beside us.

"Remember the friend that touched your life, no matter how briefly, and helped to shape who you are today.

"Remember the teacher, who strived daily, to see that you had the tools to face life beyond the school walls.

"Remember the student with first aid training who swallowed his fear and remained, trying to save his teacher's life.

"Remember the teachers who risked their own lives to protect the lives of their students.

"Remember the selfless student, whose final act was to save her friend.

"Remember the countless acts of heroism, that saved many lives, and the profound heroism among those who died.

"Remember that within this evil there is still goodness.

"Remember, and those who died here will not have died in vain.

"Remember."


	16. Chapter Fourteen: Promises Broken

_**Chapter Fourteen: Promises Broken**_

_Saturday, June 19, 1:30am_

Joe stood in the doorway of the bathroom, looking into his brother's room. With one arm draped over his eyes, Frank slept fitfully on top of the covers, fully dressed and obviously trapped in some nightmare. The older boy was mumbling as he dreamt, most of which Joe couldn't understand. But there were a few words he did hear; names that kept the blond from waking his brother as he normally would have.

When Callie's and Peter's names passed through Frank's lips, Joe hesitated. Frank had refused to talk to anyone about what had happened and Joe figured dreaming about it might open Frank up to the possibility.

With a reluctant sigh, Joe silently closed the door before he walked through his room and out into the hall.

Moving with determination, Joe descended the stairs and walked through the living room. He crept quietly past the closed door to his Aunt's room, where from within he could hear the gentle sound of her snoring. He hesitated briefly before he was turning the knob to his father's office and stepping inside.

The door closed with a muffled click and only then did he dare to turn on the light. He felt like a criminal, sneaking across the carpeted floor toward his father's filing cabinets. Joe even wondered if it was worth the risk. His father might not have what he was looking for in the first place.

Still, he had to start somewhere and this was the one place he could do that at this hour of night.

As expected, the cabinet was locked but Joe was not going to be deterred. The lock picks were in his hand and with practiced ease he had the lock open a few seconds later.

Opening the top drawer he came to realize the momentous task before him. There were hundreds of files and none of them had names on them. They were numbered in a system only his father understood. It would take Joe hours to go through them one at a time to find the one he was looking for.

He got to work.

After the first few files, Joe started understanding the filing system a little and was able to determine that the active files were in the top drawer with the solved cases moved to the other drawers in the cabinet. However, after more than an hour thumbing through the solved cases, some going back to the very beginning of his father's private practice, he realized what he was looking for wasn't in the filing cabinet.

Closing the drawer with an agitated sigh, Joe walked over to the office's small closet and opened the door. There were a few boxes stacked on the floor, mostly just supplies, but one was marked 'Unsolved'. He doubted it would be in there, but it was the last place he could think of to look.

Taking the box out of the closet, he set it on his father's desk and lifted the lid. There were maybe only a dozen files stacked inside, a testament to Fenton Hardy's skill as an investigator. These were easily distinguished by the dates that were written on the outside of the folders.

More than a little surprised, Joe found the one he was looking for about halfway through the pile. It was probably the thickest of the lot with printouts and pictures poking out at the edges.

Going through the file, his heart sank little by little, and he sank into the chair behind his father's desk. The pictures alone made Joe's stomach churn and, reading the detailed information that had been gathered, made him question exactly why his father never finished the case.

So involved in the papers in front of him, Joe never heard the office door open. He didn't see his father standing there in his housecoat, but he couldn't miss the disbelief and anger that filled Fenton's voice when he finally spoke.

"I like to think I'm a pretty lenient father, but there had better be a damn good reason why you're going through my files."

He didn't dare look up. Instead, Joe just pushed a single photograph across the surface of the desk, offering it as explanation to his father. "Your last notes on this case were almost five years ago. With everything you've got here, I can't understand why you didn't see this one through to the end."

Fenton stalked across the room in a near rage, but it diminished almost instantly when he saw which file was spread across his desk. Reluctant eyes fell onto the photo that Joe had pushed toward him and he picked it up with shaking hands. There was no need for the physical reminder, the image having been burned into his memory more than six years past.

Joe lifted his gaze to his father as the elder Hardy moved to the leather sofa and slumped into its cushions. When Joe spoke, he couldn't keep the accusing tone from his voice. "Why, Dad?"

Mr Hardy sighed sadly. "I tried, son. Believe me I wanted nothing more than to catch these bastards. But it wasn't just another case. This was your brother we were talking about."

"You're right, it wasn't just another case." Joe shook his head. "We lost Frank for six months, Dad, and you just let it go."

"Not by choice," Fenton admitted, finally looking away at the image of his young son's battered face. "He was just so scared for you-"

"For me?" Joe had been prepared for a lot of reasons, but that hadn't been one of them.

Another weary sigh escaped Mr Hardy's lips. It was too late to be having this conversation, but it was one that had been a long time coming. Slowly, he got up from the sofa and stood beside Joe. He placed several of the photographs on the top of the pile of papers, images he'd never wanted to see again.

"He couldn't remember much," Fenton began slowly. "He had been gone six months and could only really remember the few days when he'd been handed over to those gangsters. He woke to being confined in that room, isolated and restrained…"

Joe shuddered as the pictures before him were now suddenly alive and real through his father's words.

Fenton reluctantly continued. "He had tried to escape a few times and that was when they got heavy handed. Physically, Frank had minor cuts and bruises. But what they did to him psychologically?" He pulled out a picture of the masks the gangsters had used. "They literally tried to scare him into compliance. The masks, the lights, the music, were all calculated to keep him submissive."

The urge to be sick was almost overpowering, and Joe had to fight to keep his composure. He desperately wanted to tell his Dad to stop, but he had wanted to know what happened to Frank for a long time. But seeing the pictures and reading emotionless reports were a lot easier to handle than hearing the horror in his father's voice as he told what he knew.

"Frank never stopped fighting them. They did the only thing they could do in that position. Threatening his life wasn't enough anymore, so they started threatening yours." Fenton started to gather the pictures together into the discarded file again. "Frank told me the one that we didn't catch said they would come after you if he didn't get me to stop the investigation. He begged me to leave the investigation alone, not because he was afraid for himself, but because he was terrified that the threat against you would be followed through with."

"Oh my god..."

Mr Hardy sat on the edge of his desk now that the pictures were tucked away. "So when your brother begged me to leave it alone, what else was there for me to do? I told the FBI and the NYPD that I would no longer be assisting them. They came several times over the period of a year with new leads, new possibilities for where the one we missed went, but I had made Frank a promise. I wasn't going to let him down."

The stillness of the night hung over father and son.

Joe felt it a struggle to keep the tears from spilling over his lids. He remembered the nights he would wake to find Frank at the foot his bed; the way Frank would react if Joe had been late coming home from school. He knew Frank had been scared, he'd just never known the reasons why.

"What prompted this?" Fenton asked, his voice softly breaking the spell.

Joe swallowed the lump in his throat with a cough and leafed through the pile of papers again. He took one out and handed it to his father. "Wherever Frank was those six months, Peter McKay had been with him."

The blood in Mr Hardy's veins froze when he saw the list naming the missing kids. McKay's seem to stick out like a neon light. He had hoped never to divulge that information to his younger son, but he hadn't counted on Joe's insatiable curiosity.

"Whatever happened six years ago," Joe continued morbidly, "is why McKay fixated on Frank. It didn't just go away because Frank couldn't remember, or because you didn't investigate. Our friends are dead, Biff is paralyzed, and my brother is blaming himself for everything because of this. It needs to be finished, Dad. And if you can't do that because of a promise you made back then, then I'll do it myself."

There was another moment's silence before Fenton spoke. "How did you figure this out, that McKay was one of the kids?"

"When Biff and I were crawling through the vents," Joe explained. "I heard Peter talking to Frank about something that happened six years ago."

That was a surprising revelation, one that brought back a sliver of the father's anger. "And you didn't think to tell me about it? Instead of breaking in to my confidential files?"

"With everything that's gone on this past week," Joe answered, "I honestly didn't think about it until tonight. Frank woke me up."

"He came to talk to you?" Fenton asked with relief. No one had been able to get his eldest son to talk about what had happened.

Sadly, Joe shook his head. "I wish he would. He was having a nightmare, a bad one by the sound of it. That's when I remembered what Peter said and decided to try and help Frank the only way I could think of."

All traces of anger faded away as pride filled the father. Joe had the strength and courage to do what Fenton could not. "Have you told Frank about this? That you want to start looking in to what happened?"

"No." For the first time in his life that he could remember, Joe made the conscious decision to lie to his brother. "And I don't think we should. I love Frank more than anything, Dad, but right now – with everything he's dealing with – he's not strong enough to handle this."

"I agree," Fenton said regrettably. "But if we do this, we do it right. In the morning, I'll make a few calls to get things in motion but we do nothing unless I say so. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Good."


	17. Chapter Fifteen: Goodbye My Lover

**A/N:** It was pointed out to me that in the Casefiles it mentions that, because there were no actual remains to bury when Iola died, there is only a nameplate inside the Morton mausoleum instead of an actual grave site. However, seeing as my world is a little A/U I'm taking a few creative liberties.

* * *

_**Chapter Fifteen: Goodbye My Lover…**_

_Saturday, June 19, 5:30am_

The last of the rain dripped noiselessly from the trees, the crimson rays of the rising sun chasing the storm clouds from the night sky. The light played through the leaves and cast growing shadows across the figure that sat on the ground beneath them.

He had sat there for a couple hours, ever since the nightmares had banished any thought of sleep. Through the storm and rain, oblivious to everything else around him except for the small plaque adorning the green grass above the pile of freshly turned soil. In his hands a small velvet box was held tenderly, moving absently between his fingers.

As the first rays of sunlight touched the headstone next to where he sat, Frank's eyes finally shifted to the name engraved on the stone. Meticulously cared for, Iola Morton's grave sat appropriately next to where Callie Shaw had been buried.

The Morton family had insisted Mr Shaw accept the site to bury his daughter. The girls had been best friends in life, inseparable, until Iola's death a year ago. Now, they would be inseparable for eternity.

_Always loving: Always loved._

The epitaph on Iola's headstone brought the tears rushing to the surface again. He fought furiously to blink them away but they mingled unbidden with the remains of the rain on his face. Frank's fist clenched around the box in his hand and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder, startling him enough to make him jump slightly. He looked up, expecting his father or brother, but was surprised by the face of someone else.

"Been here long?" Bradly Shaw asked as he lowered himself to sit on the ground next to the boy.

Frank quickly wiped at the moisture on his face and pocketed the box into the folds of his drenched jacket. "I just… I couldn't sleep."

Mr Shaw breathed deep, following Frank's gaze as it once again fell onto the ground in front of them. "Me neither," the older man admitted.

The two sat in poignant silence, but it was Bradly who broke the moment with a soft chuckle. "I remember the night Callie met you. You were soaking wet and covered in mud then too, if I recall correctly."

A small smile touched the corner of Frank's lips as he remembered that night. "I thought she was nuts, coming out into the rain like that."

"She didn't always do the wise thing," Mr Shaw continued, "especially where you were concerned. I think she fell in love with you the very first moment she saw you."

Frank's head lowered to his chest, a lump stealing his voice, and without conscious thought his fingers sought the box in his pocket. Before he realized it, he was holding it in his palm again. He cleared his throat and held the tiny box out for the other man. "I know I did..."

Bradly looked at the object and took it gently from Frank's hand. He opened it slowly, smiling warmly at the slender ring that lay within. The white gold shimmered in the morning sun, the white opal stone set in the center surrounded by a dozen small diamond-like stones. On one side of the ring the Bayport High School emblem and on the other was a graduation cap and year.

With a trembling hand, the father lifted the ring from its place in the box and spied engraving on the inside. "Always and forever…"

"I was going to give it to her during the prom," Frank's voice cracked as he spoke. "I wasn't going to propose to her, we weren't ready for that. But I wanted her to know that maybe someday…"

"She knew," Mr Shaw reverently put the ring back in the box and handed it to Frank.

Taking a shuddering breath, Frank looked to the man. "Mr Shaw, I am so sorry! If I-"

"Don't you dare, Frank Hardy!" Mr Shaw said sternly, his voice thick with emotion. "I will not let you lessen what she did by feeling guilty."

"But-"

He met Frank's gaze. "No. My daughter, my beautiful little girl, gave her life protecting a friend. That is something no one is going to take away from her, not ever. Not even you."

Frank couldn't take the intensity in the man's eyes any longer and turned away, his eyes downcast as his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

The father sniffled softly and brushed at the tears at the edges of his eyes. His hand rested on the teen's shoulder again. "I don't blame you, Frank. I wanted to – God how I wanted to hate you – but I would have been wrong. I'm sure you've heard it before, but it wasn't your fault. None of it was.

"I like to think I knew my daughter, Frank, but she loved you. You were a part of her life, you knew her in a way I never would. I was her father, but you were her everything. To hate you, or blame you, would mean I would lose the chance to know that part of Callie's life. I can't do that, and I hope you don't deny me that chance either."

Wiping the tears away, Frank shook his head.

"Thank you," Mr Shaw gave the shoulder a squeeze and got to his feet. "I'd like to start getting to know her more now, if you're up for it. Can I buy you a coffee?"

He nodded. "I'd like that, Mr Shaw."

The man smiled. "Bradly, please. I'll give you a minute." He turned and walked away from his daughter's grave.

Frank watched him go.

Slowly, his eyes fell to the box in his hand. He opened it and looked one last time at the ring inside. He swallowed hard and lifted the ring from the velvet. Leaning forward he dug a small hole in the rain moistened soil in front of him.

Holding the ring to his lips, Frank kissed it once before placing it in the hole and covering it.

"Goodbye Callie…"

_Did I disappoint you or let you down?  
Should I be feeling guilty or let the judges frown?  
'Cause I saw the end before we'd begun,  
Yes I saw you were blinded and I knew I had won.  
So I took what's mine by eternal right.  
Took your soul out into the night.  
It may be over but it won't stop there,  
I am here for you if you'd only care.  
You touched my heart you touched my soul.  
You changed my life and all my goals.  
And love is blind and that I knew when  
My heart was blinded by you.  
I've kissed your lips and held your hand.  
Shared your dreams and shared your bed.  
I know you well, I know your smell.  
I've been addicted to you._

_Goodbye my lover.  
Goodbye my friend.  
You have been the one.  
You have been the one for me._

_I am a dreamer and when I wake  
You can't break my spirit - it's my dreams you take.  
And as you move on, remember me,  
Remember us and all we used to be  
I've seen you cry, I've seen you smile.  
I've watched you sleeping for a while.  
I'd be the father of your child.  
I'd spend a lifetime with you.  
I know your fears and you know mine.  
We've had our doubts but now we're fine,  
And I love you, I swear that's true.  
I cannot live without you._

_Goodbye my lover.  
Goodbye my friend.  
You have been the one.  
You have been the one for me._

_And I still hold your hand in mine.  
In mine when I'm asleep.  
And I will bare my soul in time,  
When I'm kneeling at your feet.  
Goodbye my lover.  
Goodbye my friend.  
You have been the one.  
You have been the one for me.  
I'm so hollow, baby, I'm so hollow.  
I'm so, I'm so, I'm so hollow._

**_"Goodbye My Lover" Lyrics by James Blunt_**


	18. Epilogue: Secrets

_**Epilogue: Secrets**_

_Monday, June 21, 9:30am_

"No coffee this morning?"

Emily Glas smiled ruefully at the dark haired teen as she handed him the cool cup of water. "Not just yet."

Frank accepted the cup with a half-hearted attempt at a smile.

Dr Glas settled into her regular spot in the easy chair across from her patient and watched Frank take a polite drink before setting his cup on the coffee table. She watched him over the rim of her glasses, letting the silence linger between the two of them a moment longer.

"I'm glad you came," she said gently. "I've thought about you ever since you called me on Saturday. I was afraid you might not want to go through with it. But I have to ask, are you certain about this?"

He nodded slowly. "I don't think I can ignore it anymore, not after…"

The woman leaned forward, wanting to give the teen the physical comfort he needed but remembering to keep her professional distance. "Frank, it wasn't your fault."

"That's what everyone says and, logically, I know that." He sighed sadly. "But that doesn't stop the guilt."

She studied him for a moment, at the myriad of emotions playing in those dark eyes. "Have you talked to your family about this? Told them you're trying the hypnosis?"

"No, I haven't," he admitted. "Not yet, anyway. I want to be able to go to my Dad with something concrete, not just jumbled images from half forgotten nightmares." Frank's eyes pierced Emily's and she almost shuddered at the intensity behind them. "I need to remember."

"For your own sanity, I'm glad you realize that."

"My sanity's fine," he commented a little harshly. "I just need to know if there are any more homicidal psychopaths from those missing months that are a threat to my friends and family."

There was no stopping the smile that touched her lips. "Fair enough. Should we get started?"

Nervously, he stretched out a hand for the water and drank the glass empty. He nodded again. "Okay."

"Okay." She leaned back into her chair. "I want you to get comfortable Frank."

"Do I need to lie down?"

"If you wish, or you can remain seated. It's entirely up to you." There was a pause as he shifted on the sofa so his body was not as rigid as it had been. "Good," Emily continued, watching him carefully. "Just relax. Just lean back, just be very comfortable and relaxed. Trust me, okay?"

"I trust you."

She smiled, hoping to reassure him a little more. "Close your eyes." Her voice was softer and even toned as she strived to keep all emotion from it.

Frank nodded and let his lids close, listening to her as she instructed him to try and relax. He slowed his breathing and after a few moments his racing heart steadied into a normal rhythm. His body language must have relayed this, as Dr Glas began to speak again.

"Just listen for a moment... Listen to the sounds of the room around you." She stopped again, allowing him a moment to take in the sounds around him. "Now I want you to pretend you're in a room. It's empty and you are the only one there, sitting as you are now in a very comfortable chair."

Emily watched as her young patient began to respond to her suggestions. She could see his eyes moving about beneath his lids and continued, her voice taking on a sing-song quality. "You look around. It's a huge empty room. You notice the walls are painted black; the floor is black; the chair is covered in black; and in the whole pitch black room there's only one thing you can see and that's a small white square on the wall.

"You notice there are letters in that square. Tall, thick, black letters but they're out of focus so you begin to drift closer to them in your chair. You're very comfortable now. You're drifting closer and closer, staring at the letters. Very relaxed now, your legs are relaxed, your arms are limp and heavy. You're almost close enough to read the letters now. They start to come into focus. The letters spell Sleep. Sleep…"

Allowing for another pause, Emily could see the muscles of his limbs react. His head was starting to tilt backward as the muscles in his neck relaxed until his head was resting on the back of the sofa.

"Can you hear me, Frank?"

The answer came automatically and breathlessly; the way one who was at that in-between state of sleep and awareness would answer. "Yes."

"I want you to listen very closely to me, Frank." The melodic tone of her voice was gone, replaced by a quality that was hard and commanding. "You will forget the events of six years ago that took place at the Compound. You will push them to the back of your subconscious. If you try to recall them, it will hurt physically until you cease. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You will forget that you ever knew Peter McKay prior to the shooting at your school. You will not remember any of the things he said to you; only that he was delusional and saw you as a replacement for his long dead brother. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Should anyone enquire about the events of six years ago, you will remember this: They will come for Joe. Unless you refuse to help anyone look into the events of six years ago, they will take him, they will hurt him, and they will kill him. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You will continue to seek the council of Dr Emily Glas on these matters and will come to her first, before any other. You will continue seeing Dr Emily Glas the second Friday of every month, or more frequently should situations arise. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Emily sighed and, looking at the serene expression on Frank's face, her voice softened. "You will not remember any of this and you will believe that the hypnosis did not work. You will feel as though no time has passed. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You're back in the room, Frank. The letters in the white square have faded and you feel yourself drifting back in your seat. The square diminishes until all is black around you. I will count to three, and when I finish you will wake. One… two… three..."

Frank's eyes remained closed for a second before he lifted his head and his dark eyes were looking at her with disappointment. "I'm sorry, I don't think it's working."

She shook her head with a reassuring smile. "Don't be discouraged. A large number of the population aren't hypnotizable. It doesn't mean we can't try again-"

"No," he interrupted, picking up his cup and walking to the water cooler. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

Emily watched him refill his cup, satisfaction flashing across her features momentarily before she regained herself. "It's entirely your decision, Frank."

… TO BE CONTINUED

* * *

**A/N:**

Well, there you have it, folks. The final chapter of this story. Thank you for taking the time to read it, to review it (those of you who did) and for all your patience while I worked out the kinks in this one. I have the sequel planned, but I haven't started writing it just yet. I plan on taking a little break from this AU while I work on a couple of stand alones. Arashai (hopefuly) will be picking up again here shortly, so watch for that. As well, I have two other short stories in the planning stages that I'd like to get written before I start on the next part of the Sleeper's Saga. But stay tuned... there is still more to come!

-Liz


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